Champions of the Just
by wyles77
Summary: Blessed are the peacekeepers… Series of occasional one-shots detailing the adventures of the Hands of the Divine, beginning with the latter days of the Fifth Blight. Canticle of Transfigurations canon-line, rated for mature themes, violence, and darkspawn. (F)Warden/Leliana pairing, with frequent Hero guest roles.
1. With Passion'd Breath

**A/N:**_ OK, so the Dragon Age thing is clearly not out of my system... I got to wondering (always dangerous) as to the evolution of Leliana from happy-go-lucky scamp to badass spymaster over the course of the time between Origins and Inquisition. And also just what exactly she and Cassandra were getting up to as the Divine's personal enforcers. And lo, a series of half-formed one shots presented themselves. So here we go. I've set this in the same head-canon as Canticle of Transfigurations, so my Warden, Aryn Cousland, will be guest-starring now and again. Bioware own Dragon Age and all it's legends and lore, and I am most certainly just doing this for fun. Ladies sexytimes in various chapters, including this one, so if that's not your thing, proceed no further._

_Also, thanks to BA Tanglepaw and OriginalAlcy for encouraging this trip to pastures new, Snafu1000 for a shoutout (check their stuff, it's awesome), and all you lovely folk who asked for more..._

* * *

**With Passion'd Breath**

**9:31 Dragon – the outskirts of Denerim, Ferelden**

Leliana takes a deep, fortifying breath, and ducks into Aryn Cousland's tent, uninvited and unannounced. She is, she has decided, _monumentally_ fed up with being ignored, hurt, and bewildered.

The warden, her warden, does not look up, focused upon the task before her, drawing a whetstone with slow deliberation down Starfang's razor-sharp edge. The whistling scrape drags across Leliana's nerves – she's heard it far too often in the past few days. "If you sharpen that sword any more, it will wear completely away," she remarks by way of declaring her presence, though she's sure Aryn knows she's there.

Aryn doesn't reply, drawing the stone methodically down the back edge of the blade. Irked, the bard takes one more step, drops to her knees and clamps her hand around both stone and weapon. "Stop," she says, more forcefully. "It's sharp enough. You're wasting your time." _You're wasting our time_.

Aryn's hand stills, but she remains passive, mastering the trained instinct to jerk the blade free and cut Leliana's fingers from her hand. Leliana can't account for the anger that has begun to smoulder in her stomach and chest, but as she looks around the tent every laid-out piece of Aryn's gear, meticulously polished and whetted, adds another coal to the embers. Seeing her own equipment, cleaned and prepared with equal fastidiousness, sparks a blaze.

"Makers' breath! You've shut me out all evening… for _this_?" she demands hotly. "For days now, ever since the night we left Redcliffe, you've been avoiding me! And don't try to deny it, it's apparent even to Rufus!" The mabari has not left Leliana's side since they marched, determinedly dispensing the affection he normally reserves for his mistress. "For the love of the Maker, Aryn, why can you no longer look me in the eye, or even speak to me?" Aryn has stayed up late every night on the march across the Bannorn, ostensibly conferring with Alistair, Riordan, and Arl Eamon; coming to bed long after Leliana has sought their mated bedrolls, and gone again in the morning before the bard rises. She only knows the warden has been there at all from being woken each night by Aryn's unconscious screams and spasms; the closer they get to the Archdemon, the worse the taint seems to affect her. "Why will you not let me in?" Leliana reaches out with her free hand, grasps her lover's shoulder, and nearly recoils when she feels how tense, how rigid, the younger woman's muscles are. "Why will you not even look at me now? Please, my love, _mon coeur_… talk to me."

Aryn swallows hard, but does not look up from where Leliana's hand rests on her blade. "I need to finish this," she says, almost inaudibly, her voice as flat and calm as a mill pond in spite of the tension radiating from her body.

Wounded by the rebuff, Leliana snatches her hands back. "Fine," she snaps, her temper in command of her tongue, "you finish that. No doubt the Archdemon and the darkspawn horde will run screaming when they see how clean and sharp our weapons are. And to think I thought that Grey Wardens wielded some mysterious power beyond the grasp of simple squires!"

She gets to her feet, hunching over to avoid hitting the top of the tent, and stalks toward the flap. Behind her, there's a muted clatter as the sword hits the ground.

"Leliana… please."

Aryn's voice is drenched with tears and terror.

"Please… don't go."

The bard turns, and what she sees drives every emotion except heartbreak from her consciousness. Her warden is crying.

Grief has stripped every last one of Aryn's defences, laid bare the frightened, bereaved girl who lurks beneath the titles and the accolades; warden, noblewoman, champion, hero, Cousland. Eyes wide, tears streaming down her face, dressed in a simple shirt and breeches, she looks her age, a mere eighteen years, scarcely old enough to be shouldering such a weight of expectation.

Leliana sinks to her knees, crawls back, and pulls Aryn into her arms, embracing the sobbing warden and tucking her head beneath her chin. Her heart aches for her beloved, and for fear of what might have terrified her fierce, brave girl so. "Oh, Aryn, dear heart," she murmurs against her lover's bright gold hair, "it's all right. I'm sorry. I spoke in anger, but I'm worried about you. You've not been yourself for days."

Aryn shifts in her grip, burying her face in Leliana's tunic, weeping unabashedly as she cuddles closer to the bard. "Please, Leliana, hold me."

"For as long as you need me," Leliana promises, "and longer."

Aryn clings to her, venting her grief, sobs racking her body over and over as the pain she has been carrying for too long floods forth. Leliana, privy to some of the most intimate moments of the younger woman's life, has never seen her so despondent, has never seen her so completely undone by sorrow. But the bard knows too well there are moments that go beyond courage, beyond endurance, beyond will, and this storm has been brewing ever since Riordan took his fellow Wardens aside to discuss their plan for dealing with the Archdemon. Leliana knows the task appointed to the army and their comrades – make sure the Wardens reach the dragon at all costs – but how the endgame unfolds is a mystery to all save three.

Eventually, Aryn quiets in her arms, her supply of tears spent. Leliana sits back a little, searching the scared silver gaze of her love intently. "Tell me what troubles you so," Leliana pleads.

Aryn shivers. "I'm going to die," she whispers. "And Maker forgive me… I'm afraid to."

"You're not…" Leliana can't make herself speak the guarantee, although she desperately wants to. "Why are you so sure of this? Why now? All this time, you've been so hopeful, so brave, no? What has happened to make you despair so?"

"Riordan…" She almost spits the name. "He told us why only the Grey Wardens can end the Blight. An Archdemon can only be slain if the killing blow is given by a warden." Her voice is gaining volume and power. "And the warden who strikes that blow? They die with the Archdemon - their life is a necessary sacrifice to end the Blight. So you see, our mysterious power, as you call it, is simply to die at the right moment, our vaunted service nothing more than a drawn-out death sentence." She manages a bitter chuckle. "If the Archdemon doesn't get you, the taint does, one way or another. The Blight always wins. And they don't tell you that before you join." Anger smoulders beneath her anguish as she sniffs. "No, they prefer to wait until you dare to have hope, until you summon the audacity to dream of a future beyond the nightmares, and then they crush you."

"But why does that mean you have to be the one to strike it down?" Leliana demands, nausea and a creeping horror of comprehension rising in her belly. "There are three of you."

"Alistair's the king." Aryn ducks her head, scrubs a hand through her hair tiredly. "After all we went through to put him on that damn throne, he can hardly be allowed to sacrifice himself, except as the last, desperate resort." She snorts softly. "So it must be Riordan, or me. And if the order is to be rebuilt in Ferelden, they'll need a veteran to train people. I know nothing about being a Warden beyond that I am sworn to kill darkspawn. I'm the most expendable. It's an easy choice."

"No," Leliana whispers, stunned. In the blink of an eye, everything she has dared to dream has been rendered to ash.

"You know what the worst part is?" Aryn continues, almost conversationally. Leliana shakes her head, all of her eloquence, all of her breath stolen away by the tight, hard knot of pain in her chest. "Duncan made my father promise…," the anger spikes through Aryn's voice now, and for a moment, the lion-hearted warrior is in the ascendant, "he made my father _promise_ – while he lay sodding _dying_ – that he could recruit me in exchange for saving my life. And he knew recruiting me would kill me – I could have died during the Joining, I would have died at Ostagar if not for Flemeth and Morrigan. He betrayed my father's trust as much as Howe did." She bows her head, as her voice cracks again, as the apparition of her battle-mien fades. "He should just have left me to die defending my mother. It would have been kinder."

"Don't say that," Leliana begs, finding a broken, plaintive breath. "You've done so much good, saved so many lives, brought such hope to so many since that dark day." She kisses Aryn's tear-weighted eyelids tenderly. "Your mother and father would be _so_ proud of you, as I am. You heard your father say so, at the temple."

"I miss them so much," Aryn whispers. "I want them back. All of them. I just want them back. I want to sit with my father, listen to him talk about strategy and tactics, argue with him and Fergus and Oriana about politics. I want to fight with my mother about what I wear, and talk to her about you. I want to teach Orrin how to fight." She looks at Leliana and squeezes the bard's fingers. "I want to take you home to them."

There's nothing Leliana can say that will ease the ache of bereavement, but she feels compelled to try. "I would have liked that. If they were anything like you, I would have loved them."

Aryn closes her eyes for a moment, biting her lip. "Maker have mercy," she groans. She opens her eyes, and Leliana sees agony within the welling pools of silver. "What hurts the most… is that I'm hurting you. You don't deserve to be left alone again. I… Maker's grace, I _wanted_ a life with you." Aryn's voice lowers and lowers until it is barely audible. "I wanted you to show me Orlais, I wanted to show you Highever. I wanted to make you happy, and now... now I'll never be able to. I'm so sorry, Leliana," she chokes. "If I'd known this was what awaited me, I would not have… I would have…"

"I would still love you," Leliana assures her fiercely. "And you would still love me. We were meant to find each other, Aryn. I believe that with all of my heart. The only difference would be that there would be more distance between us, since I would have no claim upon you had our feelings remained unrequited." Clarity struck. "That's why you've been ignoring me, no? You were trying to drive me away, protect me?" She cups Aryn's face lightly with her palm as her love nods guiltily, the barest fraction of a movement, mouth trembling. "Oh, my poor, brave girl, you are far, _far_ too late for such a strategy to work." She leans in, takes a kiss from the quivering lips. "I love you, so very much."

"I didn't know what else to do," Aryn admits tearfully, stripped back to the young girl once more. "I'm so sorry, Leliana. I didn't mean to hurt you, but I don't know how to… how to make it better."

"Just love me," Leliana answers, resting her forehead against her love's. "You don't need to do anything else now. We will deal with tomorrow when tomorrow comes, and I will be with you, at your side… to whatever end. I will not leave you alone against your enemies, or with your fears. So please, my love, forget the world that waits outside this tent." She reaches under Aryn's shirt, strokes her fingers delicately across iron-hard muscles that tremble for her touch alone. "Forget the Blight, and the Archdemon, and all of the burdens that wait for you to carry them." She insinuates her fingers beneath Aryn's waistband, seeking a more intimate contact. "Just love me."

Her warden's sudden, desperate kiss is searing.

Their love-making is frantic. Leliana uses all of her trained talents, all of her polished skills, to keep the woman in her arms from thinking, to keep her aroused and inflamed until they finally collapse into a tangle of replete, boneless limbs. Wrapped intricately with the bard in a complex lover's knot, Aryn succumbs quickly to the exhaustion of the sated, her expression relaxed and, at last, peaceful. Leliana strokes her sweat-dampened hair lovingly, trying to soothe her own grief. Their lives have been at risk day in, day out for months. Both of them have suffered wounds that should have been fatal, reprieved only by Wynne's gifts. She has lived with the reality of losing Aryn to the Blight every day, but knowing that tomorrow will bring her death as surely as a condemned prisoner dragged to the headsman…

Her mind reels with a grief too immense to comprehend. A sob wrenches from her, unbidden, unwelcome, and she wriggles free of her lover's embrace, not wishing to wake the warden from the dreamless slumber she so desperately needs. Pulling on her shirt and breeches, she stumbles barefoot from the tent, and runs straight into Riordan.

The older warden catches her, sympathy dawning in his eyes as he sees her grief. "She told you, then?" he asks rhetorically, setting her courteously back on her feet.

"Should she not have?" Leliana retorts acidly, wiping her eyes.

Riordan shrugs. "It _was_ meant to be for Grey Warden ears alone."

"Then cast her from your order for breaking the rules," Leliana snaps, her voice breaking. "Then at least she would be spared such a monstrous injustice."

"Would that I could," Riordan replies dolefully. "She is far too young to have to face this, far too young to have such a demand made of her. I know a little of her past, what Alistair has told me, and you are utterly correct in this assessment." His mournful, dark eyes hold both pity and steel. "But alas, the Archdemon cares nothing for what is just or fair or righteous. And we cannot afford the luxury of fairness, not when there are only three of us." He lays a hand on her shoulder. She jerks away, unwilling to accept his offered consolation, wrapped in Aryn's anger and her own. Unoffended, he lets his hand drop. "Know this. Scant comfort it may be, but it is our custom that the oldest of the Wardens strike down the Archdemon, when possible. Duncan never intended for either of his young charges to have to win this fight."

"I'm certain he never intended to die at Ostagar either," Leliana snipes. "But here we are, nonetheless."

Riordan meets her anger stoically. "Here we are," he agrees. "I will do everything in my power to avoid letting either Alistair or Aryn take that blow. They have done more than we could have hoped, more than anyone would dare ask, to defeat this Blight, and I would spare them this sacrifice, as is my duty as their brother."

"Have you told them this?"

"I have," Riordan assures her. "I do not think Aryn believes, but I cannot do anything more about that. But if I should fall before I get the chance to end it," Riordan sighs heavily, "then one of them must take my place. And you must know that noble girl will never allow her King, her friend, to take the blow before her."

"I do know," Leliana agrees, "but you have given me small shard of hope, at least. It will be enough." Abruptly, her anger drains off, leaving her exhausted. She steps in and hugs the warden apologetically. "I'm sorry. You must think me so selfish. It is…" she smiles sadly, "unjust that her chance at life must come at the expense of yours. You are a good man."

Riordan hugs her back with a smile, then shoos her away. "_Je ne regrette rien_," he says in their shared native tongue. "I have had a good life, and I would see others able to say the same. Go. She is lucky to have you, and she will need you tomorrow, at no less than your best. Rest well, _cherie_."

"Thank you, Riordan." Leliana slips back to the tent, pausing to scratch the ever-watchful Rufus behind the ear before ducking inside. Aryn is still asleep, her hand reaching into the space Leliana should occupy. Undressing, the bard rejoins her lover in their bedroll, wrapping herself in the warrior's strong, warm presence. "I will carry the hope you dare not hold," she promises quietly, pressing a kiss to her beloved's forehead. "For both of us."

Sleep takes an age to steal over her, held at bay by sorrow and the need to savour every moment of Aryn's presence, but when the gentle dark finally overcomes her, she is, Maker be praised, still able to dream.


	2. Your Beacon and Your Shield

**Your Beacon and Your Shield**

**9:31 Dragon – atop the tower of Fort Drakon, Denerim**

The Archdemon roars in pain as it crashes to the roof of the tower, the impact shaking the entire fortress. Leliana staggers, unbalanced, and narrowly avoids being skewered by an onrushing genlock, saved from injury only by Sten splitting the darkspawn from crown to belly with one massive swing of his soul blade. She nods quick thanks to her Qunari comrade, draws another arrow, and looks for a new target.

The dragon is on its last legs, but Maker, it's been a long, hellish fight. Fatigue drags at Leliana's limbs and mind, slowing her reactions. Every shot is harder to make, the muscles in her arms trembling more with each pull of the bowstring. Her aim is deteriorating, her arrows are dwindling, her strength is nearly spent.

All of her companions are similarly afflicted. Aryn and Alistair are fresher than the others, bolstered by the strength and stamina the darkspawn taint imbues them with, but even they are flagging, their strikes less precise, their reflexes less swift. Soon now, someone is going to make a mistake in this dangerous game of cat and mouse.

Predictably enough, that someone is Aryn. Driven by her instinct to protect her friends, she takes one risk too many, getting in close as Zevran fires another salvo from the ballista he's manning; the siege weapon has been a godsend for their chances. Aryn ducks in under the dragon's wing and swings two-handed at the back of its leg. Starfang's razor edge, still bright and keen (Aryn had used Duncan's blade and then Asturian's to their ruination in the battle through the city, saving her best sword for her deadliest foe), slices neatly through hide and tendon, and the leg collapses beneath the Archdemon's weight.

"Warden, watch out!" Oghren bellows as the crippled Archdemon lashes out. Aryn tries to dodge, but not quickly enough. She throws up her shield and catches the blow, but it's heavy enough to send her flying, crashing to the ground several yards from the dragon, armour scraping across the flagstones as she skids to a stop, her cry of pain cutting through the din of the battle raging below the tower.

Leliana looses her last arrow and dashes across to the fallen warden's side accompanied by Wynne, as Sten, Alistair and Oghren fan out to cover her. Zevran swings the ballista, adjusting his aim to keep clear of his companions. "Don't kill it!" Leliana screams at the top of her lungs. "Sten, keep Alistair back!" Aryn's final briefing this morning had been explicit – if anyone other than her, Riordan or, at the end of need, Alistair, strike the final blow, the Archdemon will be reborn within another darkspawn and they will have to fight it all over again. Sten looks over, nods acknowledgement, then turns back to the fight, planting himself firmly between Alistair and the beast.

Reaching Aryn's side, her heart clenches as she sees her love already trying to rise, teeth gritted in a grimace of agony. Her helmet is gone, knocked clear by the dragon's blow. Her shield is almost wrecked, three long, deep grooves scored across the face by the claws that should have disembowelled her. The arm beneath is almost certainly shattered, hanging limp and useless at her side. Leliana grabs the lower rim of her breastplate and hauls her upright, then, in a moment of brutal objectivity, draws a dagger and slices the straps of the shield; Aryn can't heft it anyway and it's simply causing her pain. The battered kite of metal hits the ground with a clatter, and Aryn groans in relief. "Thank you," she sighs. "The gauntlet too." Leliana complies, as Wynne raises her hands to attempt a healing in spite of her fatigue. Aryn stops her with half a head-shake. "Save your strength for the others, Wynne," she rasps, her gaze hardening to steel as she sets herself. "I'll be all right, now. Maker watch over you."

"Find peace in the arms of the Maker, Warden Cousland," Wynne returns, the rigid formality of the words bridling the wealth of pain and sorrow in the mage's voice. "I will never forget you."

Aryn turns to Leliana. "Leliana, I…"

"No, my love," Leliana cuts her off, tears blurring her vision as she kisses her beloved a final time. She wants to beg Aryn to run and live, but now that the moment is here, she cannot utter the words that will weaken her lover's resolve. Duty must come first, for both of them. The Archdemon has to die. Aryn's duty is to slay it; Leliana's, to give her the strength to see the task done. "No more words. I know you must do this, and everything worth saying has been said. I love you. Let's finish this." She drops her bow and draws her second knife, ducking under Aryn's useless left arm and taking what weight she can from the Warden's tired, aching body.

Love, gratitude and grief flare in Aryn's eyes, and then she steps forward. Leliana guards her flank, cutting down the last few darkspawn between them and their target, and then suddenly, they are beneath the Archdemon's massive wings, advancing towards the head.

The fight may have wreaked terrible damage upon it, may have exhausted its flames but the Archdemon is still a dragon, still capable of killing, and the others must be allowed to withdraw from their baiting of it before it gets in a lucky blow. Leliana takes a precious second to look at Aryn one more time, etch the moment into her memory, then shoves the warden away from her with all her might. Swinging round, she casts one of her knives in a smooth overhand throw, hitting the Archdemon square in the eye. The dragon's head swings round with impossible speed, a scream of rage and pain issuing from its jaws as it seeks to locate its tormentor. Leliana tries to dive clear, but her attempt at evasion isn't quick enough, and the horned snout clatters into her with stunning force. She hits the ground hard, her head smacking painfully into the stone. Dazed and winded, with excruciating pain flooding through her right arm, she's completely helpless.

She dimly hears a woman's voice raised in a cry of defiance, then the air fills with a titanic shriek of agony that hurts her ears. Hands slide beneath her armpits, pulling her into a restraining hug, and a cool haze of healing magic surrounds her. As the pain and dizziness recede, she sits up, straining to see, Wynne's hands holding her gently captive.

The Archdemon is down, motionless. Starfang juts from beneath its jaw, where Aryn's final strike has driven the blade up into its brain. Alistair, Sten, and Oghren are standing over it, weapons raised, alert in case the task is not done. Alistair kicks at it gingerly, provoking no response. "I think it's dead," he says, disbelievingly.

"Stick your sword in it," Oghren suggests with a tired grin. "If you don't fall over, we'll know for sure."

Alistair scowls, starting to turn toward Leliana, but his gaze only tracks halfway to her before a cry of anguish tears from him. "No!" he cries, dropping his blade and darting forward.

Leliana follows his movement, compelled even though she does not think she can bear to see what he has seen. Twenty feet beyond the beast's body lies a still form in blood-drenched silver armour, sprawled brokenly over the flagstones.

Leliana's own scream rents the air, thin and hollow in the sudden quiet.

"Aryn!"

She wrenches herself free of Wynne's grasp with a wail, bolting to her feet and staggering forward. "Aryn, no!" As she steps from the healing spell's area of effect, pain washes over her, tearing a gasp from her lips, but she pushes on, staggering to Alistair's side and collapsing to her knees beside her love's still, pale body. "Oh, no… oh Maker, please."

Andraste's grace, she might simply be sleeping, her eyes closed, her face relaxed and at peace beneath the grime and the blood from the gash that's split her cheek open. She looks so young and innocent that she can't possibly be dead. _It can't be true_. "Wake up, Aryn," Leliana begs brokenly, shaking her shoulder. "Please, my love… please wake up. Please?"

Somewhere deep in the romantic centre of her heart, Leliana hadn't really believed, hadn't wanted to believe, Aryn's pronouncement that certain death awaited her if Riordan failed. Even when the lonely Orlesian warden had taken his terrible fall from the Archdemon's back, even when she'd seen her lover's shoulders slump at the realisation that the burden was now hers, Leliana still hadn't been able to bring herself to believe. Surely the Maker would not be so cruel. Aryn has suffered so much in this Blight; surely asking this final sacrifice of her would be too great an injustice for the Maker's compassion to bear. And yet, as she gazes anxiously upon her love's face, there's no movement to indicate life; only the wind, idly caressing her spun-gold hair. A chill fills Leliana's whole being, spreading from her chest into her stomach, and she shivers, hugging herself to ward off her desolation as her heart breaks. Throwing her head back, she screams, an animal cry of pure grief.

"I don't understand," Alistair whispers, tears choking his voice as he runs his hands uselessly over Aryn's armour. "She's not injured. She shouldn't be dead. It was _supposed_ to protect her." A sob wells in his throat.

Leliana ignores him; she has no capacity to comfort his grief when her own is beyond comprehension. She leans down, tears streaming from her eyes and pattering onto her Warden's lovely face. "Oh Aryn, dear heart," she murmurs brokenly. "I love you so much." She kisses the younger woman's soft lips, tasting copper and salt, braced to feel them already cooling.

But they're warm.

Her lips are warm.

_Still_ warm.

Leliana puts her ear to Aryn's mouth, and the softest whisper of breath tickles her senses. "Wynne!" she yelps desperately, her voice cracking. "Wynne, she's still alive, she's _breathing_! Help her! Help her, please!"

Alistair pulls Leliana back, hugs her close in part compassionate restraint, part solidarity of suspense, as the exhausted mage summons her last reserves of strength and bathes Aryn's body in healing magic. She can't maintain the spell for more than a few seconds, but Aryn coughs, chest heaving as she sucks in a stuttering, gasping breath, and her quicksilver eyes flutter open. Leliana shakes Alistair loose and bends over her lover, smoothing her hair back out of her face in delighted disbelief. "Aryn? Aryn, my love, please, can you hear me?"

Aryn nods, ever so slightly, as her gaze focuses on the bard. "Lel… Leliana," she wheezes.

Leliana hauls her warden up, cradling her head against her chest, wrapping her arms around the awkward armoured bulk of the warrior's shoulders. "Maker, thank you," the bard whispers, weeping now from relief as the frozen sensation that gripped her thaws to fuel her tears.

"What happened?" Aryn asks hoarsely. "Is the Archdemon…" Her gaze is confused, clouded with disbelief. She tries to sit up, look around, but Leliana pulls her gently back.

"Rest easy, my love. It's dead. You did it."

"I can't feel it anymore," Aryn persists. "It's really dead?" Her eyes seek Alistair's face, needing the other warden's verification.

"As a doornail," Alistair confirms, placing a restraining hand on her breastplate as he shifts to give her a clear view. "I'm not sure how we're ever going to get your sword out of its head – you really jammed it in there." He makes a show of looking at the corpse. "I guess you wanted to be sure, hmmm?"

"But then… why am I alive?" Aryn wonders, staring over at the monstrosity she has slain. "If I killed it, it should have killed me. Riordan said the warden who strikes the killing blow dies. If it's dead, then..."

"You're not _complaining_, are you?" Wynne asks in tired amusement.

"No… no, but…" Aryn's gaze does not leave Alistair, suspicion knitting a frown into her brow. "I just don't understand."

Alistair's jaw tenses. He lets out a sigh, then turns to look Aryn straight in the eye, a slow blush developing across his cheeks. "I guess Riordan must have been wrong," he says firmly.

Aryn holds his gaze for a long moment, and something passes between them, but it's too complex for Leliana to interpret. Wynne is no less intrigued, her gaze narrowing thoughtfully. Eventually, however, Aryn looks away. "I guess he must have been," she agrees tiredly.

Alistair's blush deepens, but he's forestalled from replying by the arrival of a blood-soaked Bann Teagan and a mixed company of knights and mages. "You did it!" Teagan exults. "The darkspawn are in full retreat." He looks at the Archdemon in wonder. "Maker's breath, how did you ever bring that thing down?"

Alistair looks sombrely around at the bodies strewn over the tower top, elves, dwarves, and men; united in death and sacrifice as they would never willingly be in life. "With an awful lot of help," he says quietly. "And that will not be forgotten, not in my kingdom, not while I rule."

Aryn shifts in Leliana's arms, and the bard looks down to see her warden gazing up at her. "I can't believe it," she murmurs, for Leliana's ears alone. "I can't believe we won."

"I could not believe we would lose," Leliana replies. "I believed in my heart that we would triumph; the Maker has rewarded our faith, guided our victory with the beacon of hope. How do you feel?"

"Terrible."

"I am not surprised." Leliana risks a little levity. "You know, you scared me a little just now."

Aryn closes her eyes with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Leliana."

"No, no, _mon cherie_. No need to apologise. I'm just so pleased to have you still with me." When she doesn't respond, the bard nudges the warden gently. "Are you still with me?"

"Mmm?" Aryn's eyes open again, and she looks troubled as her gaze falls on Alistair. Leliana leans in close to whisper in her ear.

"Whatever is bothering you about Alistair, my love, let it go for now. You're alive. However unlikely, however that miracle was achieved, it is worth celebrating." She kisses Aryn's cheek. "It is all of my prayers, answered."

Aryn's sudden smile is luminous. "I'm the answer to your prayers?" she manages to jibe weakly. "Maker help you, Leliana."

"He always has," the bard chuckles, stroking the warden's hair. "In fact, I'm almost certain he's quite fond of me."

"He's not the only one," Aryn murmurs, her eyelids drooping. "I love you."

"I love you too." Leliana continues her caress. "Shhh, it's all right. Rest here a while with me." She sits down, cross-legged, and settles Aryn's head in her lap. Aching and exhausted Leliana may be, bruised and scraped from head to toe, covered in blood and gore, surrounded by the stench of burning and death, but she is sure of one thing as her battered hero falls asleep in her weary arms. She has never been so happy in her whole life.


	3. She Who Trusts in the Maker

**A/N: **_Thanks to everyone who's followed, faved and reviewed thus far, especially those of you who've left guest reviews, since I can't thank you by PM. I'm glad you're enjoying my take on this. And now, without further ado, let's catch up with Cassandra..._

* * *

**She Who Trusts in the Maker**

**The Grand Cathedral, Val Royeaux, Orlais, 9:31 Dragon**

In the grey light of the pre-dawn, the Seeker wakens, obedient to a rhythm instilled by a lifetime of discipline. Cassandra Pentaghast rises immediately from her cot, splashing water onto her face and neck to clear the lingering vestiges of sleep, then kneels before the east-facing window of her spartan cell, offering her morning prayers to the Maker as the first rays of the sunrise paint the sky with long, vibrant streaks of ochre and gold.

Devotions complete, she makes her toilet and then washes and dresses, opting for her traditional Seeker's full formal armour, burnished plate and embroidered robes, rather than the plainer, more comfortable gear she wears on the road. In the Grand Cathedral, in full sight of those who set store by such things, it is always best to pay due deference to tradition. Besides, Cassandra will admit in her secret heart that she likes the intimidating effect of the full Seeker regalia; people are far less likely to bother her with inane questions if she appears to be completely unapproachable.

Once armed and armoured, the Seeker sets forth, navigating the warren of corridors that permeates the cathedral complex. The denizens of Val Royeaux refer to the whole compound as the cathedral, but in truth the high seat of the Chantry is closer to a self-contained town than a single building. Cassandra can obtain virtually anything she requires for her daily life without ever setting foot outside the ornate, gilt gates that shut out the mundane world. She knows some brothers and sisters who have never crossed that portal since the day they took their vows.

It is a mind-set she cannot comprehend. For all that her presence in Val Royeaux is voluntary, the result of conscious choices (though she has been cooped up here for far too long, lately), the parallels with the life she rejected as a teenager do not escape her notice. A gilded cage, an expected decorum, a mentality entrenched in tradition and complacency. _The weight of history is a powerful force_, the Seeker reflects as she traverses the colonnaded walkway from the monastery where she maintains her quarters to the cathedral proper. _Always, it seeks to mould the present to its form_. A wry smile quirks her mouth. She may not be much more liberated than she was as Nevarran nobility, but at least here she can acknowledge that truth, and no one, not even the Divine, can demand that she wear a dress.

She acknowledges the salutes of the Knights Divine, the respect due the Right Hand, as she approaches the side door to the narthex of the cathedral. "Most Holy is within?" she asks.

The left-hand sentry nods. "Yes, Seeker," he affirms, his voice echoing hollowly within his helmet. "A raven arrived an hour before dawn, and upon reading the news it carried Most Holy felt moved to give devotions."

Cassandra arches an eyebrow in surprise. Clearly the news must be momentous, then. "She is not in her offices, then?"

"She kneels at the Prophet's feet, Seeker," the templar replies. "Giving thanks, though I know not what for." He tilts his head slightly toward the door. "She has not asked for privacy, however. She is attended by Mother Evangeline and Mother Dorothea."

"Dorothea?" The name is unfamiliar to Cassandra, an ignorance that irks her somewhat; she knows all of the grand conclave on a personal basis, and better than half of their support staffs by sight. There is no Revered Mother of that name resident in the Val Royeaux complex, of that she is sure.

"She arrived not half an hour ago from the country," the templar replies. "Mother Evangeline vouched for her."

Ah. Doubtless she is one of the Left Hand's agents, then, though Evangeline rarely identifies her people so blatantly. "I see. May I pass, then?"

"You may proceed, Seeker. The Maker's grace be upon you."

"And His peace upon you," Cassandra responds formally. As the templar settles back to his position, she pushes the door open on silent, well-oiled hinges and steps into the cathedral. It must be word of the Blight. Nothing else could be of such importance. _Could it be that the darkspawn have been defeated_? The situation in Ferelden was dire; with the king fallen in battle at the ruins of Ostagar, the nobles had fallen to bickering among themselves while the darkspawn ravaged the countryside and slaughtered the people. And the Grey Wardens of Orlais had been stopped at the border, along with the support troops pledged to King Cailan by Empress Celene, on the Regent of Ferelden's orders. Teyrn Loghain's hatred of Orlais was apparently so great that he would rather see his beloved homeland destroyed than accept Orlesian help.

The Divine had been incredulous at that news, Cassandra hardly less so. The Blight would destroy everything, cover all the lands of Thedas in darkness and corruption if it was not checked quickly; Warden-Commander Clarel had been adamantly clear on that point as she'd dispatched more than half her command east to compensate for the loss of the entire Ferelden chapter of her order. Six weeks ago there had been proclamation of a Landsmeet, the gathering of nobles unique to Ferelden's government, but no official word of any changes or action had been forthcoming. The orders to close the border remained in force, and Celene's commander dared not force the issue.

There were rumours, of course, whispers of long-lost princes being found, of golems and qunari stalking the countryside, and all manner of other far-fetched nonsense, but Cassandra had been ignoring the mess-hall speculation, preferring to put her faith in the intelligence received by her counterpart. However, Mother Evangeline had been unable to confirm anything concrete other than that the Arl of Redcliffe had moved his court to Denerim more than eight weeks ago after recovering suddenly from a severe illness.

To say the Left Hand was chafing at the lack of information was a monumental understatement; sharp-tongued even at the best of times, the old witch had become downright waspish as her networks of agents failed to turn up anything verifiable. She was adamantly convinced that someone was making a political power play, but she could find no corroboration. The Blight, it seemed, was simply swallowing up everything it touched.

Cassandra can sympathize with Evangeline's frustration, she has to admit. If Beatrix would only give the word, she would gladly lead a force of templars to assist Ferelden. Standing on the sidelines has never been the Seeker's strong suit.

As she turns into the nave of the cathedral, the splendour of the sight before her chases all of her conjecture from her mind. It never fails to stop her breath, no matter how often she sees it. The space itself is immense, taking up the full width and most of the length of the building, towering columns and lofty vaults supporting a ceiling so high it is lost in shadow. Two delicate galleries run the length of the nave on either side to provide additional space for the faithful. Three storeys of intricate stained-glass windows split the incoming light into rainbows, painting delicate, many-hued patterns of light on the snow-white marble floor and picking out details in the intricately carved reliefs depicting scenes from the Prophet's life that adorn the walls. The builders had known their craft, shaping and placing the carvings such that the most important events are highlighted by the incoming light, telling Andraste's story day after day as the sun traverses its path across the heavens.

At the centre of the building, precisely where the nave and the transept intersect, the colossus of Andraste commands the entire cathedral. Cast in bronze and overlaid with gold leaf, the image of the Bride of the Maker in her aspect as the Prophet, prayerful and devout, stands fifty feet tall, towering over all comers. Beyond the statue, the hammered aurum chancel screen bars the view into the choir, but the Chant of Light carries on the incense-laden air nonetheless; the litany is repeated every two weeks, every verse and line of every canticle, the chanters rotating in shifts so that there is never a break in the measure.

Cassandra takes a deep breath, feels the familiar peace of the place infuse her being as the scent of the incense tickles her nostrils. She sinks to one armoured knee with an echoing, atonal clank of metal against stone, and bows her head in prayer. "Andraste guide me, that I may know no fear, for the Maker is with me. Andraste guide me, that I may not be dismayed, for I walk in the Maker's sight. Andraste guide me, that I might be upheld by the Maker's righteous hand, and walk the path he sets for me in faith, hope, and love. Blessed Andraste, hear my prayer."

The Seeker rises and walks as quietly as she can down the grand central aisle, wide enough for three knights to ride astride. Three figures are gathered at the foot of Andraste's statue, standing at the public altar with heads bowed in contemplation. As Cassandra closes, she is able to recognise two of them; the Divine and Mother Evangeline. The third woman, in the robes of a Revered Mother, mud-spattered and travel-stained, must be the mysterious Dorothea.

As she reaches the group, the Divine turns to greet her. "Ah, Cassandra, good morning."

"Most Holy," the Seeker offers, bending to kiss the Divine's ring. "An early start, I see?"

"We have much to be thankful for, this day," Divine Beatrix smiles. "The Blight has been defeated, Maker be praised."

"Andraste's mercy, that's wonderful news. How was this victory accomplished?" Cassandra asks.

"It seems there were Grey Wardens remaining in Ferelden after all," Evangeline elaborates sourly; she is not, by habit, an early riser and being roused at the crack of dawn does little for her disposition. "One of them, by some enormous coincidence, turned out to be the bastard half-brother of King Cailan. The Landsmeet proclaimed the bastard as king after his colleague championed him and defeated Teyrn Loghain in trial by combat. They rallied the armies of Ferelden, and slew the Archdemon in the ensuing battle when the darkspawn attacked Denerim."

"The horde sacked Denerim?" Sorrow washes through Cassandra. "Maker, what of the townsfolk?"

"Mostly evacuated, including the elves in the Alienage," the Divine replies, sounding relieved. "Many lives were saved by quick and thoughtful action. From what I can tell, this King Alistair seems to have made a very good start with his stewardship of Ferelden's throne. I will need to write to him, and thank him and his nobles for their efforts."

"We do not know enough of this young king, as yet," Evangeline muses. "He set aside his brother's widow, it seems. I wonder why? Teyrn Loghain's daughter would have been a valuable ally in healing the wounds of a civil war."

Cassandra snorts. "Perhaps Cailan's queen took exception to the suggestion that she marry the man who had just executed her father."

The Divine smiles slightly at this, while Evangeline scowls at Cassandra. The Left Hand's ire is not something to be lightly provoked, but Cassandra has long since lost her fear of the older woman. "Anora is a shrewd and calculating young woman," the Divine remarks before Evangeline can speak. "It's unlikely she would have let her fractious relationship with her father get in the way of her ambition."

"Though your empathy does you great credit, Seeker Pentaghast," the newly arrived cleric offers quietly, as the Left Hand subsides with a mutter.

"Thank you, revered Mother," Cassandra returns politely, turning to fully face the woman. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, however."

"Oh, I'm sorry, how very rude of me. Dorothea, revered Mother to the cloister of Valence. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." Dorothea extends her hand, and Cassandra shakes it warmly, taking in the laughter lines in the woman's face, the keen intelligence that dances in her eyes, and the assured grip. This woman oozes self-confidence, rare for a cleric in close proximity to the Divine and her two most trusted agents.

"Likewise," the Seeker responds. "Please, call me Cassandra. What brings you to Val Royeaux, Mother Dorothea? Did you also bring us word of the Blight?"

"In a sense, although my arrival in Val Royeaux is entirely coincidental," Dorothea explains smoothly. "I bring news that compelled me to travel directly here from Valence. But I am not sure it should be disclosed in so public a place."

"We shall retire to my offices, then," Beatrix orders. "Let us proceed directly."

The four women walk in silence across the transept and through the tall doors that lead to the Divine's audience chamber and her personal offices beyond. Once they are seated on the couches the Divine keeps for less formal moments of discussion, Mother Dorothea clears her throat.

"One week ago I received a letter from a friend of mine, a lay sister cloistered in Lothering whom I had the privilege of bringing to the service of the Maker a few years ago," she begins, fishing a carefully folded piece of parchment from her robes and handing it to the Divine.

Beatrix lifts the letter and scans it. "Written in cipher?" She peers at the text. "I don't recognize this particular one."

"No. Forgive me, Most Holy, after an… unfortunate… encounter with a bardmaster some years ago I had cause to look to my own security, and asked my friend to write a cipher for me. She is one of only three people, including myself, that I trust with it." Dorothea leans forward, lowers her voice. "My friend, much to my relief and surprise, has been travelling with the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, one of whom must have been this new king…"she checks the text, "yes, I see his name here, Alistair. She joined them when they rescued her from Lothering." She looks over at Evangeline. "You must have heard reports of the Arl of Redcliffe's illness, yes?"

"Yes," Evangeline confirms. "It was one of the reasons I suspected foul play was afoot after the rout at Ostagar."

"Sister Leliana's letter confirms that Eamon was poisoned, and that, in a desperate bid to heal him and gain his political support against Teyrn Loghain, the warden in command decided to seek the Urn of Sacred Ashes."

The Divine takes a deep breath, her gaze searching Dorothea's face intently. "And?"

"They found it," Dorothea says quietly. "In a ruined temple above a village called Haven, deep in the Frostbacks."

"Maker's Grace," Cassandra breathes. "Can it be true?"

"Leliana's faith runs deep," Dorothea asserts. "If she believes it, I believe her. The Ashes healed Arl Eamon, rid him of the taint of a poison with no known cure. And she speaks of a Chantry scholar, one Brother Genitivi, who can provide corroboration."

"I know the name. I've read some of his research treatises," Cassandra notes, her pulse quickening with excitement. "He does not appear to be a man given to exaggeration."

"Indeed not," Evangeline agrees. "He's as reliable a source as we're likely to find, and the Urn has been an obsession of his for years. If he thinks what they found was genuine, and Arl Eamon's healing can be verified by witnesses…"

"Leliana reports that the Arlessa Isolde and various members of the Redcliffe household would be willing to give testimony to that effect," Dorothea interrupts, a restrained smile on her lips. "She's been very thorough."

Cassandra doesn't really care how meticulous Dorothea's contact has been, her attention is almost wholly taken by the enormity of what they're discussing. The resting place of Andraste herself? Possibly the most holy relic the Chantry could ever dream of obtaining? And they know where it is? "It is a miracle," she says softly. "A sign from the Maker that the threat of the Blight has truly been conquered. If these wardens, this king, found the Ashes, then they must truly be His worthy servants."

Her excitement is contagious; she can see it trip from her to Dorothea, then Evangeline, and finally the Divine herself. Beatrix smiles slowly, wonderingly, as she meets the gazes of her advisors one by one. "Cassandra is correct. This is a miracle, born amid the shadow of evil. And we must act quickly to make sure the Ashes are protected, and the news reaches the faithful in the right way."

"The Ashes appear to be guarded," Dorothea reports, scanning the letter once more. "Leliana speaks of a Gauntlet, a trial of faith and spirit designed to protect the Urn from those of impure purpose."

"Be that as it may," Beatrix replies, "We dare not take any chances. Dorothea, does that letter contain directions?"

"It does."

"Good." Beatrix turns to Evangeline. "Evangeline, send word to Grand Cleric in Denerim at once. Brother Genitivi is to be found and commanded to present himself to me with all haste. Dorothea, reply to Sister Leliana, thanking her from me for this joyous news. I would hear more from her, if she is willing. Perhaps you could invite her to Valence to visit you, as a first step?"

Dorothea inclines her head. "It would be my pleasure, Most Holy."

Beatrix nods, and turns to Cassandra. "Cassandra, Dorothea will give you the location of this village and this temple. Gather a detachment of the Knights Divine, find this place, and make sure it is protected. You may draft reinforcements from Ferelden's templars and chanters as you see fit. I charge you, as my Right Hand; let no man set foot in the resting place of our Lady until my formal proclamation of discovery is made."

Cassandra's heart leaps. To be trusted with such an enormous responsibility… to be appointed the protector of something so important... she can hardly believe it. "As you command, Most Holy," she acknowledges, fierce pride and joy flaming in her stomach. "I will take ship on the next tide."

Dorothea chuckles. "So very impulsive, my dear Seeker." She smiles as Cassandra blushes. "Peace be upon you, Cassandra, I meant nothing by it. I see that this has captured your imagination, and if you mean to leave today, I should transcribe this letter for you with all haste." She lifts the parchment, and offers a bow to Beatrix as she gets to her feet. "By your leave, Most Holy?"

"Of course, Dorothea. Report back to me when you are done. And you," the Divine flashes Cassandra a tolerant, fond smile, "You'd best get packing. The next tide is at noon."


	4. Blessed Are the Righteous

**Blessed Are the Righteous**

**9:32 Dragon, Valence, Orlais**

"This is it?"

Leliana nods as she dismounts her horse before the Chantry. Aryn tilts her head back, looking up at the building in admiration.

"The architecture's quite different here, isn't it?" she comments.

"Mmm. Orlais is the heartland of the Chantry, and," Leliana grins, "to pander completely to your Fereldan prejudices, we simply adore grandiose and ostentatious buildings."

"I knew that would be the reason," Aryn chuckles as she dismounts and ties her horse to the hitching post alongside the bard's. "So, you're Orlesian today, are you?"

"Well, as received wisdom would have it, when in Orlais, do as the Orlesians do, no?" Leliana offers airily.

"Doesn't that contradict 'Wherever you are, always be a little exotic'?" Aryn enquires.

Leliana laughs as she cocks a curious eyebrow. "So, you _do_ listen to me, do you?"

"Avidly," Aryn assures her. "I could listen to you all day long. Which is just as well, really, given how fond you are of talking."

"Oh, you _beast_," the bard accuses in a tragic voice. "You wound me with your ungallant words and your _wicked_ tongue."

Aryn bites the inside of her cheek to keep a straight face as she catches Leliana around the waist. "I thought you enjoyed my wicked tongue," she breathes in her lover's ear.

Leliana shifts in her grip, and her teeth nip at Aryn's earlobe in turn. "Do you _really_ want to play this game with me as we walk into a Chantry?" she challenges, her tone suddenly silken with the promise of sin. "Because I promise I'll leave you blushing and stammering like a virgin in an Antivan brothel."

"Mmm." The groan slips from Aryn's mouth as the bard's lips find the pulse point beneath her jaw. "Your argument is irrefutable, as is your ability to make good on that threat. I concede." She hasn't a hope of besting Leliana in verbal combat, not when the topic is innuendo; the bard has years of advantage over her.

"How is it you yield so easily, mighty warrior?" Leliana teases.

"Discretion is the better part of valour, maiden fair," Aryn retorts. "And there is no shame in acknowledging an opponent's superior skill at arms."

Leliana steps back with a wink. "Well, then, mine the victory, messere, and I'll claim my spoils later," she promises. She flicks a glance at the Chantry doors, and takes a deep breath.

"Nervous?" Aryn asks gently, surprised to see Leliana unsettled.

"A little. It's been a long time since I saw her, and… my memories of those days are not the happiest." Leliana reaches out and captures Aryn's hand. "Thank you for coming with me."

"My pleasure," Aryn replies earnestly. "Anything you need. And I won't pretend it isn't nice to get away from court for a little while." She squeezes her lover's fingers. "You'll be fine."

Leliana smiles and tugs her toward the door. "Come on then. Idle time is wasted time, no?"

The interior of the Chantry is breathtaking, and Aryn, in spite of her privileged upbringing, feels like an unsophisticated peasant at first as she marvels at the intricate stained glass, the towering marble statues, the priceless artworks adorning the walls, and the expanse of polished limestone that clads every inch of the walls. But while walking gingerly over the expanse of silk carpet that muffles their footfalls, a sense of disquiet develops as she realises that for all that the building purports to be a monument to the glory of the Maker, it is also very much a statement of the Chantry's wealth and power. After all, if this is the splendour of one of the least of the Maker's houses, how much more glorious must the Grand Cathedral be? How much wealth does the Chantry hold, and how much of that wealth is spent to ensure its primacy in the lives of all who live beneath the sign of the sunburst, from the Empress of Orlais to the poorest beggar in the gutters of Ostwick? It's an impious thought at best, and she shivers slightly beneath the stern gaze of the statue of Andraste.

Aryn's faith in the Maker and his ways is no longer what it was before she left Highever, a simple, straightforward acceptance of a widely proclaimed truth. She has seen too much and heard too much for that naïve view to ever be recaptured. From Morrigan's outright, militant atheism to Leliana's deeply personal, intimate expression of faith, she has heard many different viewpoints over the past year or so. The best she can say now is that she's not sure what she believes. Even though she has witnessed genuine miracles, she also knows how easily magic can create a facsimile almost indistinguishable from the real thing.

Guilt gnaws at her at the thought. She has not disclosed to Leliana the true nature of the reason for her survival. Morrigan has been true to her word; in the six months since the battle to end the Blight, no trace of the Witch of the Wilds has been found. For Alistair's sake, Aryn has kept her silence; she trusts Leliana implicitly, but she does not feel the secret is hers to confess. Alistair took the decision, Alistair performed the ritual, and Alistair must shoulder the burden and the consequences, though Aryn would never let him do so alone. She owes him that much, and far more.

Leliana's unsubtle pinch to her waist brings her back to the moment, and she realises they're no longer alone. A middle-aged sister with a pursed, disapproving mouth and a stern expression is approaching, her weighing gaze raking over the strangers in her Chantry. Aryn composes herself, settles into a rest position at Leliana's shoulder, ceding leadership of the situation to the bard.

"Welcome to Valence," the sister intones coolly, the words clearly a rote greeting rather than an actual welcome. "I am Sister Clarice. How can I help you?"

"Your welcome warms us, Sister," Leliana replies, blithely indifferent to the outright contradiction of her words with reality. "Andraste guide thee, that you may know the blessing of the Maker's love."

Clarice's eyebrows rise in surprise. "Andraste guide thee, that you may walk in the Maker's light," she responds, her tone a fraction less chilly. "You serve the Maker?"

"My name is Leliana, a lay sister of the Chantry, until recently serving in Lothering," Leliana explains with a confiding smile. "Alas, I was forced to flee the town when the darkspawn attacked. I was fortunate to be rescued and taken under the protection of a band of good and kind adventurers, who saw me safe to Denerim. When the Blight ended I determined to visit Valence to give thanks, and to bring word of the Blight's sorrow and suffering to Revered Mother Dorothea."

Aryn is impressed; there's not a word of a lie in that artful little speech. But sadly, Sister Clarice seems somewhat less impressed. "May I ask why Valence? Surely there are many Revered Mothers in Ferelden who would hear such an accounting?"

"Many of the Mothers of Ferelden experienced such events for themselves," Leliana replies sorrowfully. "As I daughter of Orlais, I felt compelled to bring word to my homeland. And Mother Dorothea was the one who brought me to the Maker's service." She offers an appealing smile, and Aryn looks up at the ceiling to hide her own smile. It takes a will of iron to resist Leliana in full charm mode. "I know how important her work is here, and that certainly you, good Sister, must have many things that require your attention, but I pray you, if it is not too much trouble, would you bring word of our arrival to the Mother? We are happy to wait upon her convenience."

"I am indeed a busy woman," Clarice agrees flicking a disdainful glance at Aryn. "It may be some time before I can find a moment to inform the Revered Mother. And who it this that you bring with you? One of your _adventurers_?" There's an audible sneer in her enunciation of the word.

It seems the sister possesses that iron will, a resolve that would be more impressive if not coupled with such bloated self-importance. As Leliana opens her mouth to reply, Aryn lays a hand on her shoulder. She's heard enough. While she does not set much store by her rank and titles, she dislikes the woman's patronising attitude and her utter lack of respect for Leliana. "I believe I can speak for myself, Sister Leliana," she says softly.

Clarice arches an arrogant eyebrow. "Please do. I don't have all day."

"That much has been made apparent," Aryn replies coldly, drawing herself to her full height and stepping past Leliana. "Warden-Commander Aryn Cousland, Lady of the Royal Court of Ferelden, and heir presumptive to the Teyrnir of Highever. If the Revered Mother would like to hear of the death of the Archdemon, I can supply a personal testimony, as I was the one to kill it." She stares down at Clarice balefully. "Would it be asking too much for you not to waste any more of my time, Sister?"

Sister Clarice bobs a quick, flame-cheeked curtsey, then turns and hurries away, maintaining a precarious grip on her dignity. Aryn gives Leliana a sidelong look, and there's not a trace of amusement in the bard's expression, but sparkles of glee dance in her bright blue eyes. "Your bark is nearly as fearsome as your warhound's," she murmurs.

"She irritated me," Aryn shrugs. "I don't expect people to bow and scrape to me everywhere I go, but is common courtesy really too much to ask?"

"Sadly, yes," Leliana replies. "Not to make sweeping generalisations, but this is Orlais. The grand game confers influence on many, and that influence often breeds arrogance and contempt. It is a side to many people here that saddens me greatly."

"I take it this doesn't afflict your Mother Dorothea?"

"No, not at all," Leliana assures her. "Dorothea showed me great kindness when I was a worthless criminal. Clarice would not have soiled her robe even setting foot in the prison."

There's an anticipation in her voice that is unusual, and Aryn does not miss the slight tremor that ripples through her lover. Resuming her original stance, she rests her hand at the small of the bard's back to offer reassurance as they wait. "You've never been worthless," she murmurs. Leliana turns her head a little, enough to make eye contact, and smiles gratefully.

"Leliana!" An older woman, one Aryn guesses to be about her mother's age, emerges from the vestry and hurries across the hall to greet them, throwing her arms wide. Leliana steps forward, eagerly accepting the hug.

"Revered Mother, it's wonderful to see you again," she greets her mentor.

"And you, my dear." Dorothea cups Leliana's face in her hands, the way Aryn's great aunt used to do to her when she was a not-so-small child. "Let me look at you. Maker's grace, I was so relieved to receive your letter, to hear that you were safe and well. I worried so when I heard of the fate that befell Lothering."

"The Maker was watching over me, of that I have no doubt," Leliana replies earnestly.

"So it seems." Mother Dorothea smiles warmly as she releases the younger woman. "The Urn of Sacred Ashes? Maker's breath, I've never been so shocked in all my life. And yet somehow, your involvement in its discovery is no surprise to me."

"Ah, no, I was little more than a bystander. The true discoverer of the Ashes is here with me." Leliana turns to Aryn, holds out her hand. "Revered Mother, I want you to meet someone very dear to me. May I present Warden-Commander Aryn Cousland? Aryn, this is Revered Mother Dorothea, the woman who saved my life after Marjolaine betrayed me."

Aryn offers a deep, formal bow. "Then I have much to thank you for, Revered Mother. It is a pleasure to meet you. Leliana speaks of you often, with much affection."

Mother Dorothea looks her up and down, judging her with a sharp, intelligent gaze that once again calls Eleanor Cousland to mind. "I suspect I am the one who should be thanking you, my Lady," she remarks. "You are the Grey Warden who ended the Blight, are you not?"

"I am."

"Then on behalf of all those who reside in this parish, please accept my thanks for your courage and sacrifices in defence of the people. All Thedas owes you a great debt."

Aryn blushes at the unexpected compliment, and covers her embarrassment with a short bow. "It was my duty, Mother, and certainly not solely a victory of my making, but I thank you for your kind words."

"You're too modest," Leliana chides her.

"A fault which too few people suffer from, in my experience," Dorothea says with a smile. "But come, both of you. I want to hear more of the Sacred Ashes." She links her arm with Leliana's, beckons for Aryn to follow, and begins to walk toward the vestry, but before the Warden even takes a step, the door of the Chantry bangs open behind her. She jerks around, fingers reaching for her sword hilt, and relaxes as she takes in the livery of one of Ferelden's royal guardsmen. The man drops to one knee as he reaches her.

"Your pardon, my Lady, I was ordered to find you post-haste," he says breathlessly, offering Aryn a letter originally sealed with the crest of the Grey Wardens, and re-sealed with the royal crest. "Knight-Commander Cauthrien's compliments. This arrived for you five days after you left Denerim. His Majesty directed that it be brought to you with all speed."

"Thank you, ser," Aryn responds as she accepts the missive. "Are you commanded to wait for my reply?"

"Aye, my Lady. If it pleases you, I'll wait at the tavern by the harbour until you've composed your response."

"I'll find you when I need you, then, thank you," she dismisses him, turning to Leliana. "Go on ahead, if you like," she suggests. "This seems to be urgent. I'll attend to it then join you."

Dorothea nods, and beckons to the chastened Sister Clarice. "Sister, will you see the Commander provided with a desk, parchment, a quill and ink for her correspondence, please?"

"At once," the sister agrees. Aryn tosses Leliana a reassuring wink. Whatever's in the letter can't be good; the effort of getting the message to her has not been lightly undertaken, but she's confident that come what may, they'll be able to handle it.

**OoOoO**

Leliana follows Dorothea into the vestry, disquieted by the sudden interruption. Things that demand Aryn's immediate attention are rarely trivial – miracle cures, blights, archdemons, and kingmaking leap to mind. _What could possibly have gone wrong now_, she wonders. The Blight is gone, Alistair is proving to be as popular a monarch with his subjects as his father,even if some of his nobles are still unsure, and he is safely married to his new queen. Leliana grins at the thought – Bann Alfstanna had been shocked beyond speech at the proposal, but she's a perfect match for Alistair, intelligent, light-hearted and a proven leader who can help him rule wisely and well, especially now that Anora has been quietly packed off to a live of idle luxury in Cumberland.

She shrugs off her concern as the Revered Mother bids her take a seat by the desk. Whatever it is, Aryn will tell her as soon as she can. She settles into the chair, angling it slightly so that she can see the door. Old habits die hard.

Dorothea smiles wryly at the movement. "You haven't forgotten your training, then?"

"I've had occasion to polish most of my old skills of late," Leliana agrees carefully. "Fighting darkspawn for survival can make concern for the state of one's soul somewhat more academic than in normal times."

"I don't doubt it," Dorothea replies, her gaze seeming to weigh Leliana as she studies her. "You seem happy, if I might make so bold. Far happier than your last letter from Lothering would have suggested."

Leliana sighs. "I was not myself in Lothering," she admits. "For a time I desperately wanted to be – I wanted that life to be my true desire – but it seems I am not suited to a life of quiet contemplation. When you found me, when you helped me, it was certainly the right thing for me, but now… well, the Maker moves in mysterious ways, no?"

"I've always found that to be so, yes. And I am not surprised you felt restless – you needed time and space to grieve and heal, but I never imagined you remaining hidden away in Lothering forever. You have too much boldness in your spirit for that." Dorothea glances toward the door. "Your Grey Warden friend – she recruited you to fight with her?"

"I didn't give her much choice." Leliana chuckles at the memory of Aryn's polite incredulity when she'd announced her intention to join the wardens' party. "I volunteered, and she was too well-mannered to refuse me." She meets Dorothea's gaze steadily, hearing the true question beneath the words. She has nothing to hide, so she answers it. "And she is not simply my friend, Revered Mother. Aryn and I are lovers."

Dorothea nods. "That much is apparent. In her bearing, at any rate, even if you are more guarded." She tilts her head thoughtfully to one side. "So do you know what you will do, now that the Blight is defeated?"

"No," Leliana admits. "Aryn is to take command of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. For the moment, I have no plans beyond staying with her. She needs me."

"And if I should need you, someday soon?" Dorothea asks quietly. "If I should call upon you to serve the Maker?"

"If I am called to serve the Maker, I will seek her agreement before making any commitment," Leliana states bluntly. "And I will take no vows that prevent me from being with her or returning to her."

"Leliana…"

"No, Revered Mother, I do not want to hear it. I do not want to hear that life does not always grant you your heart's desire. I know that all too well." Leliana looks the older woman firmly in the eye. "I owe you my life, and for the sake of that debt, should you have need of me, I will serve. But I will not pledge my life unreservedly to the Maker."

Dorothea looks at her for a long moment. "You care so much for her?"

"I love her," Leliana states simply.

"As you loved Marjolaine?"

Once, not so very long ago, that barb would have held the power to wound. Now, Leliana can simply shrug it off. "No. I idolized Marjolaine, and it blinded me to her true nature." She purses her lips, choosing her words carefully. "Aryn is… my refuge. She makes me feel safe and cherished, in a manner I have never experienced. She does not seek to use me. And she trusts me, whole-heartedly."

Dorothea arches a sceptical eyebrow. "And you know this how?"

"She allows me to see her fears and her pain," Leliana asserts, an edge of protectiveness creeping into her tone. The memories of the Blight, the nightmares, the agony, the dark terror in Aryn's eyes, will not soon fade from her mind. "I have seen her stripped to the very core of her soul, as you have seen me. You know yourself that leaves little room for subterfuge or doubt."

Dorothea nods placidly. "I do. Forgive me, Leliana, I do not mean to slight her, nor your choice. I simply wish that you not be hurt again as Marjolaine hurt you."

Leliana sighs. "You are kind, Mother, but you need not fear that. I am not so naïve as to say Aryn will never hurt me, but I know she would never seek to do so intentionally, and that is what matters. Besides, the gain of her love, and mine, as we have them now, far outweighs the risks of the unknown future."

Dorothea smiles. "You've grown a lot since we last spoke, Leliana. I'm proud of you." She sighs pensively. "But let us return to the matter at hand before your warden concludes her business. I may not need you right now, but one day soon, Maker willing, I will call for you. Beatrix is failing; her age is catching up with her, and I am increasingly in her council and her confidences, a situation helped immeasurably, I must confess, by your letter regarding Andraste's ashes. For which you have my gratitude from perspectives personal, political, and pious."

Leliana blinks at her, shock washing through her as she reaches the suddenly obvious conclusion. "You intend to be the next Divine?" she asks softly. She knows Dorothea to be ambitious – her dealings with Marjolaine were proof enough of that – but this is a bold move, even so.

"I do," Dorothea says simply, approval in her steely gaze. "You've not let your political wits become dulled, I see. Mother Evangeline and Seeker Pentaghast have come to trust me; I will have their backing come the time, as well as Lord Seeker Lambert's and Grand Cleric Elthina's, and I am working to secure the support of the remaining Free Marcher cities, Nevarra, Antiva, and Ferelden. This is an opportunity I do not intend to pass up." She spread her hands in a gesture of earnest appeal. "The Chantry needs to change, Leliana. The way we treat people born to wield magic is shameful, as is the lot of the elves in the Alienages. I would see the Chantry embrace all the Maker's children as equals. But to make that change, to really and truly build a lasting legacy, I will need allies of strong faith. Champions of the just, with the will to weather the storm and to stand for what is right, as you have done in this Blight." She meets Leliana's gaze with calm determination. "I will need a skilled and subtle Left Hand."

Leliana's jaw drops as she realises what Dorothea has just offered. "Me? Left Hand of the Divine? You can't be serious!"

"Never more," Dorothea rebuts her. "Marjolaine taught you well, and I have seen for myself how talented you are at this kind of work. You have the abilities, the aptitude, the belief to aid me in reforming the Chantry, building a faith that gives love and hope to all, to try to make right what has been corrupted by the hearts and minds of humankind."

Leliana stares at her, thoughts whirling, but before she can pursue any of them, the door scrapes open and Aryn steps in. The grim, pensive expression on her face tells Leliana louder than a scream that something is amiss. "Aryn? Is everything all right?"

Aryn nods curtly. "Well enough." She forces a smile. "It will keep, Leliana, don't worry. I'm sorry for interrupting."

Dorothea gestures to a free chair. "Make yourself comfortable, Commander, you're not interrupting in the slightest. Leliana, please… think on all that I've said. But now, I implore you both – tell me everything you know of the Urn of Sacred Ashes."

**OoOoO**

It's late by the time they take their leave of Dorothea, leading their horses slowly down the path to Valence's sole inn, a shack by the harbour barely worthy of the name. They don't speak until they're comfortably ensconced in their room, after Aryn has dispatched Alistair's guardsman with her reply to the King's message and Leliana has arranged for a cold supper of bread and cheese to be brought to them. "What's wrong?" Leliana asks as they settle to their meal.

Aryn sighs, picking at the crust of her bread. "The wardens sent from Orlais to rebuild the order have made landfall in Amaranthine, and are heading for Vigil's Keep. It's a little sooner than I anticipated, I'll admit, but that's not what's bothering me." She hands Leliana the letter. "Alistair's added a few lines."

Leliana scans down the page until she reaches the lines scrawled in the King's sloppy penmanship.

_Aryn,_

_Sorry, sorry, sorry._

_Blast it, I was in two minds about sending this on to you. I was just going to wait – you've earned a rest, Maker knows – but three hours after this came in I received a report of a darkspawn band wiping out one of the regiments I sent out to deal with them. As long as they were running away, they were easy pickings, but it seems they've been insolent enough to start fighting back, and now they're raiding villages all over the coastlands. Sadly, I don't think the cushions of the throne are deeply enough imprinted with the shape of my backside for me to let the Orlesian wardens lead the charge against them without you – Anora will be back here screaming about treason before you can say "sense of entitlement" for one thing, and I think we can all do without that special brand of excitement in our lives._

_Anyway, long story short – I need you to come home. The faster the better. And if Leliana's going to kill me for ruining your trip, I'm at least comforted by the fact I'll never see it coming, and it'll cure all of my headaches in one fell... swoop._

_With profound apologies for pulling rank (and the full and certain expectation that you will wallop me black and blue on the training field in retribution),_

_Alistair_

Leliana giggles as she hands the letter back. "I know it's a serious issue, but Maker, it's just so… Alistair, isn't it?"

Aryn chuckles ruefully. "It is." Her smile fades quickly. "I'm sorry, Leliana, I'm going to have to go home."

"I know," the bard agrees.

Unspoken between them is Dorothea's invitation to Val Royeaux, to tell the tale of the Ashes to the Divine herself. It's a golden opportunity… but Leliana will spurn it if Aryn asks that she accompany her back to Ferelden.

The warden looks at Leliana for a long moment, then offers an encouraging smile. "You should go to Val Royeaux with Dorothea. I know you would love to see it again."

"There's plenty of time for that," Leliana waves the remark away. "Val Royeaux will always be there."

"But the chance to meet the Divine is a very rare one, I would imagine."

"Yes," Leliana admits, "that's true." She looks away for a moment, steeling her courage. "But even that might not be so rare, in future. Dorothea told me… she is likely to become the next Divine. She wanted to know… if I would serve, when the time comes. Personally, as one of her closest advisors."

Aryn does not quite tense, but Leliana sees the restrained impulse ripple through the warrior's body. "And you would want to?"

"Yes, and no," Leliana sighs. "I'm conflicted, torn. I owe her my life, and it's a debt I feel I must honour. And the opportunity to do something to change the Chantry, help make life better for the mages, as she wants to, comes but once in a lifetime."

Aryn nods slowly. "I can understand that. But working for the Divine… that would mean you would have to live in Val Royeaux?"

"Yes, that would be almost certain, though I'm sure there would be travelling." Leliana looks away again, feeling tears threaten. "And there is my conflict. I don't want to be parted from you." It's too soon, far too soon to be having this conversation. The Blight is barely six months past.

There's a scrape of wood on wood, and Aryn's kneeling by her side suddenly, looking up at her. "Hey," she says softly, "she's not the Divine yet. And for all that she may desire the post, even be campaigning for it, it's not a simple inheritance – someone else could be elected. So let's not worry about it now," she pleads. "We'll deal with that future if it befalls us." She reaches up and presses her thumb against Leliana's chin, tilting her head down. "You should go with her. Meet the Divine, see Val Royeaux, remember your time there. All I'll be doing instead is slaughtering darkspawn, and that's _so_ last season."

Leliana giggles, her humour rapidly finding purchase in her brightening mood. "Only one season behind is an improvement for you, no?" she jokes, and Aryn chuckles.

"Your good influence, I'm sure." She offers a wink. "I'll come with you next time, and you'll remember so much more that you can tell me for having seen it again more recently."

Leliana's heart swells with affection, and she cups her warden's face in her hands. "I love you," she asserts, placing a gentle kiss against the warrior's silk-soft lips. "You're as thoughtful as you are brave."

"And you're as beautiful as you are deadly," Aryn grins, pulling her in for another, less chaste kiss. "Which reminds me, didn't you say something about claiming your spoils, earlier?"

Leliana grins back as she rests her forehead against her lover's. "I did. And as my prize, I think I'd like you to remind me of why I so enjoy your wicked tongue."

Aryn rises to her feet, scooping Leliana easily out of her chair. "Your wish is my command, my lady fair."


	5. Never to Rule Over Him

**Never to Rule Over Him**

**9:32 Dragon, Vigil's Keep, Arling of Amaranthine, Ferelden**

A fireball streaks across the training yard, obliterating the hapless straw man planted on a spike between the flagstones. "Good," a harsh, strident voice approves. "You're really getting the knack of focusing your energies."

"Thanks." A lighter voice, suited to laughter and sunshine, responds. "I can't believe how much of a difference these past few weeks have made. I thought I knew how to fight with magic, but you've shown me so much already."

"You have good instincts, and a natural flair. What you've taught yourself is nothing short of remarkable; it's a miracle you didn't blow yourself up years ago."

Aryn Cousland, sitting on the steps that run from the courtyard up to the damaged west wall of the Vigil and enjoying the crisp morning air, stifles a chuckle at Velanna's grudging approval. The elf is getting better at softening her words, as a rule, but sometimes, she backslides.

Her pupil, their newest recruit, doesn't seem sure how to take the comment at first, but after a moment, Bethany Hawke decides that it's a compliment and smiles warily. "Living in hiding doesn't give you much of a chance to really practice," she offers. "Too many nosy strangers who'd sell you out to the Templars. It wasn't so bad at home, but in Kirkwall… it was like living in a cage."

"Well, now that you're with us, you can practice as much as you like," Velanna replies. "And since you'll mostly be throwing fireballs at darkspawn, your Chantry will even cheer you on."

"Mostly?"

"Well, sometimes stupid _shemlen_ will get in our way," Velanna grins. "Bandits and thugs and suchlike. Or even some of those Templars, who will want to remind you of your place."

Bethany looks worried. "They'd try that?"

Aryn gets to her feet and heads down the steps to join them. "Not in public view, no," she says. "As long as you're identifiable as a warden, they won't dare lay a hand on you. Especially not in Ferelden. The King's displeasure can be a very useful shield."

Bethany looks up shyly; she's been here about a week, but Aryn only returned to the Vigil two days ago after taking a trip to check in on Avernus, and she hasn't really had a chance to speak to the young mage beyond a formal welcome; the business of the ongoing repairs to the Vigil and handing the rule of the Amaranthine over to the new arl has been taking up most of her time. Alistair was disappointed, but Aryn can't effectively govern the arling and attend to her Grey Warden duties and fulfil her obligations to Alistair's court in Denerim. There simply aren't enough hours in the day, and sooner or later those obligations will come into conflict again. It's better for everyone that the arling be returned to crown rule, with the exception of the Vigil.

She's debated moving the Wardens out to Soldier's Peak rather than keeping the claim to the Arl's traditional seat. The stronghold is certainly fit for their purposes, and is part of the order's history, but Aryn is enough her father's daughter to recognise that the isolation of the ancient fortress is a dangerous thing. One of the problems that had plagued them during the Blight was ignorance. People knew nothing about the order, so they believed readily in the lies Loghain had spun. That it's necessary to keep some of their activities, customs and traditions secret is a given, but in Aryn's view they will do themselves no favours by disappearing into the mountains and barring the doors of an impregnable fortress behind them. So she asked Alistair if she could keep the Vigil, partly to keep them connected to the people of Ferelden, and partly to retain the useful direct (and secret) access to the Deep Roads the castle's cellars affords. Alistair had readily agreed, and the wardens remain a common sight on the roads around Amaranthine.

Velanna snorts in derision. "I don't need a king to hide behind," she asserts, drawing Aryn back to the conversation.

"Of course you don't," Aryn agrees mildly, winking at Bethany. "You just hide behind me."

The elven mage bristles, then just as quickly gives way to amusement, chuckling wryly. "Well, Mythal knows you're bulky enough in that foundry you walk around in to provide cover for three of me."

"I live to serve," Aryn retorts wryly. "Thanks, Velanna. I'd like a word with our new friend here, if you don't mind."

Velanna nods, then turns and walks away without further comment. Bethany looks after her uncertainly.

"Don't mind Velanna," Aryn advises with a reassuring smile. "She's a little rough around the edges, but her bark's much worse than her bite. Mostly."

"She's… uh, not really what I expected from a Dalish mage, my Lady," Bethany replies, shifting her feet nervously.

"No need to call me that," Aryn says quickly – she wants the other woman to be at ease. "There's no need to stand on ceremony."

Bethany blushes. "I've… never really met a noble before. I didn't want to give offence."

"And you've given none. You can call me Aryn, or, if you really must use a title, Commander is fine," Aryn assures her. "So, Velanna told me a little about how you came to join us." She gestures for Bethany to accompany her as she begins to walk toward the barbican. Rufus, digging in the grass growing at the foot of the wall, looks up questioningly, then, as Aryn shakes her head, returns to his attempt at sapping the defences with a determined vigour.

"There wasn't much choice," Bethany remarks after a moment of thoughtful silence, poorly guarded anger resonating in her tone.

"I can relate." Aryn sucks a breath in through her nose. "It was join or die for me too, though the circumstances were a little different." She regards her companion with compassion as they pass beneath the gate; she can well remember the confusion and anger Bethany must feel. "But regardless, I'm not in the habit of forcing conscription upon people. You don't have to stay if you don't want to."

Bethany stops abruptly, stares at her perplexedly. "You… you'd let me go?"

Aryn nods firmly. "Let me be clear. I would love it if you would stay. We need all the help we can get. We don't get many volunteers, and of those volunteers, very few survive the Joining. We can help you master the changes you're going through, and give you a degree of freedom as a mage that you'll never have elsewhere, but we're not slavers. If you don't want to stay here, you are free to depart."

"Your pardon, Commander, but that's not what I'd heard. I'd heard being a warden was for life."

"Well, in the sense of the change that becoming a warden makes to your body, that's true," Aryn explains. "But nowhere is it written that you can't leave the order."

Bethany chews her lip, clearly weighing up her next words. Eventually, she volunteers her source. "Anders said you wanted to keep him against his will." Her voice is soft, barely a whisper, scratchy with sudden nerves. "He said he ran, and that you tried to hunt him down."

"He did run," Aryn agrees, "as he has always run from everything that he cannot face. Yes, I did try to stop him, and yes, I did give chase, though I wasn't exactly driving him through the woods with a pack of dogs in hot pursuit. I rode to Jader after him, but he was too good at evading Templars for me to have a hope of finding him." She chuckles wryly at the memory of her last view of the mage. "The cheeky bugger mooned me from the deck of the ship as it weighed anchor." She sighs pensively. "In truth, he was never happy here, not really. And if that was the only consideration, I would have paid his passage to wherever he wanted to go and he would have had my blessing to take his chances with his freedom. But after what happened with Justice…" She grimaces. "I wanted to keep Anders here because he is an exceptional case. Have you seen him when he is possessed by Justice?"

Bethany nods. "Once. In the Chantry, in Kirkwall. His friend had been made tranquil, and he was angry, and the spirit took over his body. He slaughtered the Templars who came for us as though they were children. It was terrifying."

Aryn grimaces. She's long dreaded hearing something like that. "Anders is an abomination, for want of a better word, and while the spirit that possesses him is one of positive attribute, it views the world in absolutes, and it identifies with Anders' anger at the injustice of the way mages are treated by the Chantry. And that makes it dangerous."

"It's dangerous because it thinks we're treated unjustly?" Bethany demands sharply.

"No." Aryn holds up her hands. "I put that badly, my apologies. Mages should be free to live as they wish, that has always been my belief."

Bethany subsides slightly, mollified. "So how can justice be dangerous?" she asks.

"If it is not tempered with mercy, it is a cold and pitiless thing to behold. And if it is yoked to a cause alongside anger, it very quickly turns to vengeance." Aryn stops walking, leans against the fence bordering the road. "Shortly after the Blight began, my family were murdered by Arl Howe."

"Maker's breath!" Bethany gasps.

"The Commander of the Grey at the time, Duncan, was visiting our castle and he got caught up in the fight. He saved my life by getting me out of the castle and away, on the condition that I join the order."

"That's awful!" Bethany looks horrified. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Bethany. I appreciate your kindness. Before the shock wore off, I was almost logical about what I wanted," Aryn relates. "I wanted justice. To see Howe brought to trial and punished for his crimes. But then the king fell in battle and it became apparent that Loghain had given Howe the order, and that there would be no justice from the crown. After Ostagar it took a while for my shock to thaw out, but once it did, I was beyond angry, and I gave into that fury completely. I didn't want justice, I wanted vengeance. I wouldn't admit it aloud, but I wanted to hurt the man who'd hurt me. I called it justice to anyone who'd listen, but it wasn't. I wanted Howe to suffer as I had, I wanted him to know how I felt before I killed him. And I very nearly did it. When we finally confronted him, I wanted to tear him apart, and when he goaded me, all I could see in my mind's eye was me ramming my sword into his guts and twisting it, slowly." Aryn shakes her head; she can still feel that white-hot rage stirring when she thinks of Howe, and her family are near two years gone. "I wanted to feel his faltering heartbeat down my blade; I wanted to feel it shudder, and stop."

"How did you stop yourself?"

"I didn't. Someone who loves me stopped me, pulled me back from the edge. Howe died in the ensuing fight, but not at my hand." She looks up, meets Bethany's gaze as honestly as she can. "I was very lucky. In my moment of weakness, someone I loved and trusted was there to catch me. And at the end of the day, neither vengeance nor justice could ease my grief. Only love and time can do that. My fear for Anders, whose rage at a lifetime of oppression and injustice far exceeds what I ever felt for Howe, is that that his fury will turn justice to vengeance, and if he is alone he will have no help to fight it. And he's a bloody fool whose heart rules his head in every situation. I wanted him to stay with us, I followed him to Jader to try to reason with him, because I felt responsible for what happened to him, and I wanted to be sure he had the right support to carry that burden. He rejected my concern, and in choosing to do so, he lost both my support and my protection."

"You knew he was an abomination, and you didn't kill him," Bethany observes. "Why not?"

"Because he retained his humanity," Aryn replies carefully, conscious that how she answers this could make or break Bethany's decision. "My grasp of the fade and demons and spirits isn't all that solid, but I've seen possession in a few different forms. Anders and Justice reached a mutual accord, though from what you say it sounds like Anders might be losing control. Another mage I know was possessed by a spirit of faith, in order to save their life. That spirit stays dormant unless the mage calls upon it. It's different to hostile possession by a demon, which destroys the soul of its host. If Justice had taken over Anders' body, I would have killed him without compunction, but Anders is still alive, still there, still making his own decisions. I don't have the right to end his life because he _could_ become a danger. All men and women can turn to hurt and harm, anyone can lose control – Anders is no different to me in that respect, and nor is any other mage." She draws Starfang suddenly, flicking the blade so that the point comes to rest three inches from Bethany's jugular. The mage's eyes widen and she freezes. "I'm a warrior, trained to kill, and trained so well that I can take a life without thought, with the simple reflex reaction that hours of drill in the training yard instils. It would be as easy for me to open your throat as not, from this position. Yet no one insists that I be locked away." She sheathes the weapon with a wry grin. "Magic is dangerous, but so are swords. To chain people for what they _might_ do is insanity."

She doesn't miss the naked flare of hope in Bethany's eyes. The mage has lived her whole life in fear of such chains, and while a warden's oath is undoubtedly also a chain, it is a chain of a different kind. It is not a punishment for simply being born. Ferelden's circle is about the most lenient in Thedas, Aryn has learned from her conversations with Wynne, but it is the unjust nature of the leash that chafes at its residents, even among those who have borne it lifelong. Aryn thanks the Maker for the thousandth time that she was not born with such a poisoned gift.

Bethany takes a deep breath, offers one last test. "Anders also said you took away his cat, because it made him soft."

"Did he?" Aryn arches an eyebrow, a chuckle bubbling up from her chest. "Well, on that, he's stretching the truth just a bit. I took away his cat because he kept bringing it with him into the Deep Roads, and after the fourth incidence of us being ambushed as a result of it crying to be let out of his knapsack, I ran out of patience. If I remember rightly Velanna called him a soft-hearted fool while he was sulking over it. Anyway, however he likes to tell it, Anders left the Wardens for personal reasons, and King Alistair left us for a higher calling – it happens. But before you make a decision, you should know a few things."

"What things?"

"First and most important, the darkspawn taint that infected you isn't gone or cured, it's simply… slowed. What you stumbled upon by accident, the rest of us deliberately inflicted upon ourselves. Do you remember what Stroud and Velanna did to save you?"

"No," Bethany admits. "Nothing's really clear, except the pain."

"The joining ritual requires a prospective warden to drink darkspawn blood mixed with lyrium and one drop of an Archdemon's blood," Aryn explains. "If you survive it, you become a warden. It's not just a title, the ritual changes you, grants the ability to sense darkspawn, increased physical endurance, sharper eyesight and hearing, quicker reflexes. Velanna says it's deepened her mana reserve, and I take her at her word on that. But the cost is a shortened lifespan; the taint cannot be denied indefinitely."

"It's blood magic, isn't it? The Joining?"

"Yes," Aryn admits baldly. She will not sugar coat this, or hide anything – she needs Bethany to trust her if she wants the mage to follow her lead.

"Isn't that hypocritical?"

"I don't forbid blood magic to our mages. I don't much like it, it gives me the creeps, but I trust them to know their limits. I fail to see how that's hypocritical."

"The Grey Wardens, noble warriors and heroes, condoning blood magic?"

Aryn barks a laugh. "Noble warriors? Where in Thedas did you get that idea?"

Bethany deflates slightly; clearly she hadn't expected Aryn's reaction. "The stories all tell of the wardens as heroes."

"And it's easy to hero-worship someone who's been dead for Ages, and turn them a paragon of virtue. Some of our order are noble born, and some of them can, from time to time, be heroic," Aryn grins, "but of our current order, Nathaniel is the disinherited son of a traitor, Velanna's a murderer and an exile from her own people, Oghren was almost banished from the warrior caste for killing a lord's son, Sigrun's a former criminal who joined the Legion of the Dead to atone for her deeds, and I've been named traitor in my time. You'll be making us more respectable." Aryn's smile fades. "The wardens are often conflated with Orlesian chevaliers – it makes a good story, no doubt – and there is honour in the order's service, since it serves the needs of all people, of all beliefs, of all races, of all nations, equally and impartially, and we do adhere to a code of conduct. But our guiding tenet is a brutal one – we are charged with one duty, and one duty only. To defend against the Blight. In service of that one charge, we do whatever we must to achieve victory."

"That seems a little bleak," Bethany observes.

"It is."

"And the taint will still kill me?"

"I'm afraid so."

"How long do I have?" she asks flatly.

"How old are you?"

"I'm almost twenty. My birthday's next month."

"Really?" Aryn offers a companionable smile. "I turned twenty three months ago."

Bethany gapes at her. "I thought you were much older than me! I thought you'd be more Marian's age."

"Marian?"

"My big sister – she's twenty-five."

Aryn chuckles. "No, not for a few years yet."

"So how long do I have?"

"If you're very, very lucky… you might reach fifty." Aryn lays a hand on her new recruit's shoulder. "More likely you'll live another twenty to twenty-five years, assuming you don't get killed in combat. It's a hard thing to accept, I know. But we're all in the same boat as you – me, Velanna, and all the others. We know how it feels, and we can help you, as we help each other, because that's what brotherhood is all about. And we can protect you. Templars hold no authority over the wardens. You cannot be forced to join a circle against your will, or made tranquil. And if anyone wants to try," she grips the other woman's shoulders, locks gazes with her, "they will have to go through me to get to you. That I promise you."

Bethany looks incredulous as Aryn releases her. "I want to believe that, but..."

"But what?"

"But all my life, I've been told run and hide, keep out of sight, don't give away what you are." Bethany scuffs her boot in the dirt of the road. "All my life I've been a burden, a threat, a criminal. Something to be hated and feared."

"Some-_one_," Aryn corrects quietly. "You have a rare and powerful gift, Bethany. A gift that you should be able to use at will, that should be properly trained and freely wielded. With the wardens, you can have that freedom. You can hurl flaming fireballs or frozen ice at our enemies, if that is your wish. If that is not your wish, you might choose to wield healing magic, saving lives and helping people. Or, if you would prefer to keep your power tamped down and focus your efforts on research of potions, or theoretical and historical study, that path is also open to you. The choice is entirely yours."

Bethany's incredulity is transmuting slowly into belief. "My choice?" she echoes. Aryn nods.

"Your choice. What do you want to be, Bethany Hawke?"

Bethany stares off into the distance, a frown wrinkling her forehead and tugging at her mouth as she thinks. Aryn clambers up to perch on the fence while she waits, looking out over the rolling fields of the Amaranthine heartlands, the bread basket of Ferelden, an endless patchwork of fields and farms rolling away into the distance towards the coast. It's beautiful, in its way, and even if Aryn misses the mountains and the water of Highever deep in her heart, she is beginning to think of the Vigil as home. A process helped immeasurably by Leliana's presence. The bard is away at the moment, and her absence is a dark hole in Aryn's world. Dorothea had invited her to spend a few weeks in Valence. After a long, miserable winter alternating between the building repairs, culling the remains of the darkspawn bands from the Amaranthine hinterlands, and shuttling back and forward to Denerim once a month on court business, Aryn had been sorely tempted to go with her, but there was simply too much work to be done. She's been gone for a month, but Aryn expects her back in about a week, and Maker, her return can't come soon enough.

Bethany huffs a sigh, then turns from her study of the horizon to face Aryn. "I want to stop running," she says with determination, her expression suddenly fierce enough to suit her surname. "I want to find somewhere I can belong, be a part of a community that cares about me and doesn't fear me. I want to be able to do something that matters with the talents I have, and with the second chance at life I've been given. I don't want to be afraid anymore."

"I can't guarantee you'll never be afraid," Aryn warns, "but the rest of that list, I think we can provide you."

Bethany stands straighter, her shoulders squaring as the doubt lifts. "Then I do want to be a Grey Warden, Commander Aryn."

Aryn grins and hops down off the fence, offering her hand. "Then join us, sister. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry out the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day, we shall join you." Bethany clasps her wrist, and Aryn nods. "In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. Welcome, Warden Hawke." She pulls Bethany into a brief hug, smiles as she feels the slighter woman relax into the embrace.

"Thank you," Bethany says softly as she steps back. "I won't let you down, Commander."

"I know that," Aryn agrees. "I get the impression we're not so different, you and I."

Bethany laughs easily. "I don't know how you can say that. You're a hero! You stopped a Blight and defeated an Archdemon!"

"I had a great deal of help from my friends."

"But I ran from it. I was the same age as you, but you fought, and I ran."

"That just makes you smarter than me," Aryn grins. "You have a family. I had nothing left to live for." _Although I did find something to live for that I never would have imagined._ Aryn beckons to the younger woman as she retakes her perch on the fence. "Where in Ferelden are you from?"

"Lothering," Bethany replies, scrambling up beside her. "It was taken by the Blight shortly after the battle at Ostagar. Marian and Carver – my twin brother – were in the King's army. Their regiment broke when Loghain retreated, and they ran while they still could."

"Wise move. Ostagar was a horror I will never forget, and Alistair and I were beyond lucky to escape it. Far too many good, brave people did not." Aryn grimaces. "We did what we could for the folk in Lothering when we got there, but I fear many of them would have been lost to the Blight – your family were wise to leave. Ser Bryant and his men did what they could to hold the darkspawn back, but they couldn't have been more than two days behind us." _Lothering… is it possible that Thedas is truly so small? _ "I don't suppose, being an apostate, that you'd have spent much time around the Chantry?"

"Oddly enough, I found the Chantry quite soothing," Bethany admits, swinging her legs idly. "I used to hide in the gardens and listen to the chant." The mage smiles at a happy memory. "One of the lay sisters was always very kind to me, and she told the most marvellous stories." She sighs wistfully. "I haven't thought of her in ages."

"She sounds like a lovely person," Aryn remarks wryly. "What was her name?"

"Sister Leliana. She was from Orlais, and she had such a beautiful voice, whether singing or speaking. And she was very pretty." Bethany smiles fondly. "I always got the impression that the other sisters were jealous of her; they used to say such mean things to her, but she never retaliated, never said an unkind word that I ever heard. She was so lovely… it's sad to think that she probably died when the village was overrun. I wanted to fetch her away with us, but Carver and Marian both said she'd be useless if there was a fight, and she would only slow us down."

Aryn laughs at that, unable to restrain her amusement. "Sweet Andraste, that's too funny. Useless in a fight?" At Bethany's perplexed look, she offers the mage a grin. "What if I told you Sister Leliana survived the Blight and is alive and well?"

Bethany stares at her incredulously. "You know her?"

"Very well. I met her when I was in Lothering. She, um, mediated a dispute I was having with some of Loghain's men. And she accompanied us thereafter on our travels."

"You took a Chantry sister into battle?"

"Lay sister," Aryn corrects. "And she was more than capable of defending herself. She's lethally proficient with a bow, knives and a disturbingly wide range of other less-than-savoury weapons."

"Do you know what happened to her?" Bethany asks, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"She's in Orlais at the moment, last I heard," Aryn supplies. _This will be a nice surprise for Bethany, and an even better one for Leliana, if I don't give it away_. Turning her head to hide her grin, her gaze sweeps over the junction of the track to the vigil with the highway, and to her surprise, she sees a bay horse turning onto the track up to the keep, the rider reining it in to a slow trot at the realisation that there are people on the road. Aryn peers at both mount and rider as they near. The horse is a post mount, judging from the saddlecloth bearing the sigil of the royal couriers, but the rider, swathed in a cloak and hooded against the morning chill is an enigma.

Aryn scowls, concern chasing her good humour away for the moment. They're not expecting company, and an actual courier would be in livery. "Get behind me, Bethany," she instructs, pleased when the mage obeys without question. The hair on the back of her neck prickles as the mage taps her innate power, ready to act. Resting her hand on her sword hilt, she steps out into the middle of the road to hold the rider up. She flicks a quick glance up at the nearest sentry tower, sees the glint of a silverite helmet, the protruding arms of a crossbow – whoever's on duty is paying attention. Clearing her throat, she holds up a hand and calls a greeting. "Well met, stranger. What brings you to the Vigil?"

The rider throws back their hood, and Aryn's suddenly on the receiving end of a blinding grin as the horse comes to a halt at her side. "Miss me, _cherie_?" Leliana laughs as she slides out of her saddle and hurls herself into Aryn's arms.

Aryn kisses her ardently, thrilled by her unexpected appearance. "You're early," she chides insincerely as they part. "And yes. I missed you."

"I persuaded the captain of the ship I booked passage on to run to Amaranthine rather than Jader," Leliana informs her smugly. "It saved four days' travel. I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, two can play at that game," Aryn grins. She cups Leliana's face in her hands and bestows another lingering kiss, revelling in her lover's soft lips and the familiar scents of leather, herbs and Andraste's Grace.

"You have a surprise for me?" Leliana queries with a pleased smile when they break. "_Bon_. I love surprises." She unfastens her cloak and drapes it over her saddle, then slaps the horse on the rump to send it ambling toward the keep. Her dragonhide leathers are travel-stained and mud-spattered and she looks tired, but Maker, Aryn can't keep from grinning at her.

"I know you do." The warden slings her arm around the bard's waist and spins her so that she's looking right at Bethany Hawke. "Surprise, _mon coeur_."

Leliana's jaw drops. "Oh my goodness! Bethany!" she cries in delight. "Oh, _cherie_, it's so wonderful to see you!" She bounds across the road to wrap the mage in a hug at least as enthusiastic as the one Aryn received.

"Sister Leliana?" Bethany sounds stunned, and Aryn can hardly blame her. The odds of such a reunion have to have been impossibly remote.

"Just Leliana now, but yes." Leliana cups the mage's face in her hands, looks her over as she might a long-lost cousin. "What are you doing in Amaranthine? Your mother said you were making for Kirkwall when you left Lothering."

Bethany throws an appealing glance at Aryn. "Bethany's come to join us, Leliana," she explains to the bard. "She's taken her Joining."

"Truly?" Leliana frowns slightly. "I would not have expected you to take this path."

"I had to," Bethany explains. "We were in the Deep Roads, and I got sick, and your wardens helped me."

"Our wardens?" Leliana's frown deepens. "Near Kirkwall?"

"Mostly from the Orlesian order," Aryn clarifies. "I sent Velanna and Beric to join them a few months ago, mapping out the extent of the tunnels between Kirkwall and Kal Hirol. Bethany wanted to come back to Ferelden rather than go to Orlais, so here she is."

"I see," Leliana nods, her confusion clearing. "What of Marian, and Carver, and your mother, Bethany? They are all well, yes?"

"Mother and Marian are in Kirkwall," Bethany replies. "They're well enough. Marian's rich now, I expect, with what we found in the Roads. Carver… he died. And ogre killed him as we tried to run from Lothering."

Leliana's blue eyes flood with sorrow. "Oh, Bethany, _cherie_, I'm so sorry."

"My condolences," Aryn offers, and Bethany looks up, her expression sombre.

"Thank you."

"So what was it you found in the Roads?" Leliana asks, linking her arm with the mage as they start to walk back to the keep.

"An old vault filled with artefacts and treasure, which was what we wanted. We'd worked for ages to scrape together the coin to finance the trip. Marian banked everything we had on finding that vault, and we very nearly didn't make it out alive." Bethany's face falls almost comically as she realises what she's said. "Well, I didn't make it out, did I?"

"You did," Aryn reassures her kindly. "Not in the way you anticipated, perhaps, but it's still better than the alternative. But how did you even know how to get into the Roads? That knowledge isn't widely…" she trails off with a grimace as the answer presents itself. "Anders?"

"He made us promise we'd take him if we went." Bethany wrinkles her nose. "Lucky for me that he did."

Leliana reaches up to pat Aryn's shoulder in reassurance. "You couldn't have known, love. And I'm sure Anders isn't the first warden to sell that kind of knowledge."

"I know, I just… even for a warden, going into the Roads is not something to take lightly. Encouraging others to do so is practically signing their death warrant." She shakes her head. "Still, at least he was responsible enough to actually go with you and not just leave you to flounder around on your own." Aryn sucks in a deep breath, seeking calm. Anders is going to cause trouble, she can feel it.

"He's not your responsibility any longer," Leliana observes in Orlesian. "You did what you could to help him, and I know you told Wynne about him after he ran off. And he's a grown man capable of making his own decisions."

"That's what worries me," Aryn mutters, but she nods in submission as Leliana arches a reproving eyebrow. "All right, you've made your point, I yield. Let's talk about something a bit more cheerful."

"_D'accord_." Leliana turns to Bethany with a wicked smirk. "So, Bethany, _cherie_, what do you make of my lover here, hmm? Isn't she simply stupendous?"

"Oh, Andraste's flaming ass," Aryn groans as the mage flushes bright red.

"I…um… yes, I suppose she is," Bethany stammers, her eyes darting wildly around the courtyard, searching for any feasible escape route. "She's been very kind to me."

"I would hope so. She's well trained," Leliana says smugly, and then she laughs. "Oh, I'm sorry, Bethany, I didn't mean to embarrass _you_. I had thought perhaps, if you had spent time in Kirkwall you might be a little more worldly about such matters than you used to be."

"Oh, I know about _that_," Bethany says hastily. "Isabela – she's a friend of Marian's, a Rivaini pirate, she's really funny - she told me all about women, said they're good for six things and, um… well…" the mage blushes even more as she cuts off.

Leliana frowns slightly, then grins. "Isabela? We've met her. Don't you remember, Aryn, that time we were at the Pearl? And you were such a prude, turning down Isabela's invitation for us to inspect her cabin and…"

Aryn cuts her off by hauling her into a bear hug, smothering the bard's recollection in the thick material of her tunic. "Run while you can, Bethany," she advises, flinching as Leliana tickles her. "I'll buy you some time, but I can't hold her for long."

Bethany nods. "I'll see you later. Welcome home, Leliana." And with that she takes to her heels, just as Leliana slithers effortlessly out of Aryn's grip.

"Spoilsport," she pouts through her tousled hair, her grin lighting sparkles in her ocean-blue eyes.

"You can torment me as much as you like, but please, don't frighten my new recruit," Aryn parries.

"Well, in that case, I'm in need of a bath, and after that," the bard leans in close, nips at Aryn's earlobe, "I think I'd like to torture you by exploring those six things that you're good for."

Aryn swallows hard. "That makes me a little nervous, my love," she confesses.

"How so?"

"Well… I can only think of four."

Leliana's answering chuckle is the most sinful thing Aryn Cousland has ever heard.


	6. A Paragon of Her Kind, Part 1

**A/N**: _After much deliberation, I've decided to publish these as they occur to me, so they may not be chronological in the timeline in future, but I'll date them so you can keep track. Thanks for reading, as always! Also, shout out for my good buddy BA Tanglepaw, who has started publishing a Dragon Age fic called Mere Mortals based on the events of Inquisition - it's going to be a cracking read, so check it out!_

* * *

**A Paragon of Her Kind, Part 1**

**9:34 Dragon, Val Royeaux**

"I have your first field assignment, Leliana." Divine Justinia makes the announcement as she walks into Leliana's new office. "You'll need to pack for a trip through the mountains."

"Where am I going, Most Holy?" Leliana asks, setting her pen down and giving her mentor her full attention. She's been in Val Royeaux less than a month, appointed the Left Hand less than three weeks.

"Orzammar."

"Orzammar?" Leliana makes no attempt to hide her surprise. "Why would you need me to go to Orzammar?"

Justinia arches an eyebrow. "Lyrium, my dear."

Leliana arches an eyebrow right back. "Orzammar does not trade lyrium to the Chantry. Not _officially_, at least."

"Indeed. However, King Bhelen has indicated in a private missive that he may be… reconsidering that position," Justinia replies with a slight smile. "I wish to acknowledge his efforts with a strong message of personal support. However, I understand that the King's views are not necessarily shared by his nobles."

Leliana snorts indelicately. "Most of the Deshyrs are as obstinate as the stone their craftsmen hew, and the Shaperate is obsessive to the point of lunacy about preserving dwarven culture and heritage at the expense of anything progressive." She remembers the Shaper of Memories as a kindly man, but his reaction to Aryn's request that Brother Burkel be allowed to bring the Chant to Orzammar had been outright hostile.

"Just so. Not that they're alone in their outlook on such matters," Justinia remarks dryly. "But you are quite right, and thus I require an envoy who knows them and their politics. And, perhaps more importantly, I require an envoy who can persuade them to even open their gates to a Chantry delegation."

Leliana doesn't quite grin. She has a few ideas on how to achieve that, ideas that offer _considerable_ personal benefits. "Then it's a good thing you came to me, no? I'll begin packing immediately."

Justinia chuckles. "I thought you'd come round to my way of thinking. One more thing. You'll be taking Cassandra with you."

Both of Leliana's eyebrows arch this time. "I don't need a bodyguard, Most Holy. Certainly not more than you do." She hasn't even met the Right Hand as yet, not formally at any rate. The Seeker is attending to the duties of her order, as she is periodically required to do, and has been gone from Val Royeaux since just before Justinia's elevation. Leliana can't quite decide if the absence is deliberate avoidance, or pious devotion to duty. Possibly it's both.

"The two of you will be working together, Maker willing, for a long time," Justinia points out. "Best that you get to know one another quickly. I've recalled her from Tantervale and she will meet you in Jader just under two weeks from now." Justinia smiles a devilish little smile. "Cassandra is brave, forthright, honourable, and utterly, painfully honest. She disliked Sister Evangeline intensely, and she seems stone-headedly determined not to like you. You will have your work cut out for you."

"I've never yet met the person I couldn't charm," Leliana asserts cockily.

Justinia's smile cracks into outright laughter. "Would you care to place a wager on that, my little Nightingale?"

**OoOoO**

Two weeks later, the bard is on the point of glumly conceding that she might just have met her match. Tramping up the last familiar stretch of the merchant trail through the Frostbacks that leads to the gates of Orzammar, she's more convinced than ever that Cassandra Pentaghast dislikes her. Every tack she's tried has been met with a cool rebuff or a disdainful stare. _Maker, it was easier to get a smile out of Sten_.

"Here we are then," she comments as they cross the bridge into the trading post. "That's the gate to Orzammar there." She's deliberately casual; the first time she saw the dwarven kingdom's gates, she'd stared in awe for a full two minutes, only chivvied along by a snide remark from Morrigan about witless chantry wenches.

Cassandra is silent for a long moment as she studies the massive, vaulted portal. "Impressive," she remarks, her expression impassive. "How do we get in?"

"We don't," Leliana replies, fussing with the skirts of her Chantry robes as she sets her pack, bow, quiver, and bedroll down in the shade of the tall pine tree by the bridge. She's wearing a light leather jack and kilt under the heavy cloth as a precaution. Few people would dare to openly attack members of the Chantry on the road, especially one as fearsome as the Seeker, but even so, it's better not to take pointless risks. "At least, not yet."

"The King is expecting us," Cassandra protests as she too drops her gear. "Why can we not simply demand entry in his name?" She squares her shoulders and shifts her weight as though preparing to do just that, and Leliana hastily restrains her with a light touch to her armoured forearm.

"In the first place, if you _demand_ anything of the gatekeeper, we will never set foot across the entrance," she advises the Seeker as she sits down on the hard earth. "We must be patient and respectful in all our dealings with the dwarves here. They are not surfacers; their culture is quite different. An ultimatum will see us sent packing."

Cassandra scowls at her. "Then how do you recommend we proceed? Most Holy assured me that you would know how to gain entry, so I assume you have some sort of plan? Or have you just wasted the past two days prattling at me for no good reason?"

"Prattling?" Leliana protests mildly, and the Seeker nods.

"Prattling," she confirms bluntly, sitting down opposite the bard. "Maker, I have never known anyone to talk so much about so little."

"I was simply trying to be friendly," Leliana replies, pleased to have provoked some sort of response from the taciturn Nevarran, even if it's not the thaw she would have liked.

"Then please, spare me any further pleasantries. Our time would be better spent in planning how to overcome this… test the Divine has placed before us."

"She's not testing you, Cassandra," Leliana observes softly. "She knows you and your capabilities. She's testing me. And you are here to bear witness, to see for yourself that I am worthy of the post I have been appointed to, yes?"

Cassandra blushes and looks away.

"I thought so," Leliana smirks. "The Divine knows you do not trust me. It is understandable. You do not know me, not yet."

The Right Hand cocks her head, studying Leliana intently. "I do not trust you, I admit it. I did not trust your predecessor, and I have never met an Orlesian bard who could be depended upon. But Most Holy trusts you, and I am obedient to her wishes."

"How very noble of you," Leliana chuckles, and Cassandra flushes further, caught between insult and surprise.

"You are… not offended?" she asks after a moment.

"Why should I be? You are simply being honest. And I have never met a bard I trusted either, so I find no fault in your statement. And in the spirit of this sudden deluge of frank communication, I will tell you that _I_ trust _you_."

"And why is that?" Cassandra demands. "You barely know me."

"But I know of you. I know your history as a Seeker and the Right Hand. I know of your exploits. And I know your type. You're a hero, are a morally upright and virtuous woman, and I've had a few days to watch you and learn your body language." Leliana shrugs. "You are as predictable as you are courageous, my dear Cassandra, to a bard of my calibre. And so, I know that I can trust you, because I know that you will always do the right thing, come what may." She smiles to try and soften the observation. "And it's good to know that I can rely on you."

Cassandra eyeballs her suspiciously for a moment, then huffs a sigh. "I supposed we shall see. Coming back to the point, how are we to gain entry to the dwarven kingdom?"

"How do you unlock any door?" Leliana asks, semi-rhetorically. "We need a key."

She senses the effort it takes for Cassandra to refrain from rolling her eyes. "And how do you propose we obtain one?" the Seeker asks with deliberate, iron patience.

"I've taken the liberty of, wait… do you hear that?" Leliana cocks her head; she can hear a party approaching on the trail. Sound carries far in the still mountain air. She holds up a finger to stall her colleague's response as she listens intently, picking out individual voices. One male, two female. Two dwarven, one human, if she's not mistaken. Laughter, good cheer in the voices; no doubt the banter of old comrades. The boisterous bass bark of a mabari warhound.

Grinning, she gets to her feet. "Well, it's about time."

Cassandra scrambles to follow her, but Leliana pays her no mind. As she crosses the bridge that marks the edge of the trail, three travellers round the final bend, and Leliana's heart skips a beat at the sight of the lanky, blonde, black-armoured woman in the lead.

She's about to call out when a blur of red-brown fur streaks past the approaching group and cannons into her stomach. She misses her footing with the backstep she takes to save her balance and sits down hard, her new viewpoint abruptly obscured by the massive, heavy-jawed canine head that butts her roughly in the face and follows up with a long, wet lick and a pleased whine. Leliana chuckles as she lifts her hands to fend off a second assault. "Ugh, Rufus, no, I've already washed today!" She reaches for the mabari's ears, scratching behind them vigorously. "Where's my good, brave boy?" Such an action would cost a stranger their hand, but the mabari cocks his head, gives a puppyish yip of joy, then promptly collapses to his back, waving his legs in the air in an eloquent appeal for a good belly scratch. Leliana laughs outright as she complies with the request, raking her nails through the short, sparse fur of the dog's underbelly. "Call yourself a war dog?" she reproaches. "You're a bigger softie than Schmooples, aren't you?"

The mabari huffs in apparent agreement as he catches her arm in his massive jaws, shaking it vigorously and growling.

"Leliana…" Cassandra gasps warningly, fingers straying to her sword hilt.

"It's all right, Cassandra, he's playing," the bard assures her colleague. "If he didn't like me, I wouldn't have a hand any longer. Right, Rufus?"

The mabari releases her wrist, barks once, then returns to his playful worrying of her sleeve.

His companions are far closer now, still chatting as they cover the final few yards. "…Just saying, I feel like a dragon's kicking in my skull, and you're going to make me go down there and play nice with all those nug-humping bastards?" the male dwarf grumbles.

"And since I'm technically dead, I'm not allowed to talk to anyone anyway," the female dwarf observes. "They'll just ignore me. I'll have no one to talk to except Oghren."

The human shrugs. "Grey Warden trumps Legion, Sig, I've told you that before. And Oghren?"

"Yeah?"

"Look upon it as an opportunity. You've been bitching my ear off about the 'piss-weak dishwater we surfacers call ale' for years. You can get yourself a few casks of the good stuff while we're here."

"But…"

"Oghren." A thread of impatience tugs at the tall woman's wry tone. "Shut. Up. I have better things to be doing than arguing with you." The human grips the dwarf by the top of the head and twists him so that he's looking at Leliana. He gapes at her for a second, and then a positively filthy chuckle rolls from his lips.

"Heh. I wondered why you were in such a rush, longshanks. That explains everything. Hey, Leliana, you got a kiss and a squeeze for old Oghren? Maybe let me cop a feel?"

Cassandra turns and stares at Leliana as she giggles. "That depends. When did you last bathe?"

"Bathe?" the dwarf sniffs ostentatiously at his armpit. "You don't take your clothes off in winter, sweet cheeks – you get sick. And it's all good manly musk, anyway."

"Ugh," Cassandra shudders.

Warden-Commander Aryn Cousland slaps the dwarf over the head companionably. "No hitting on my girl, Og," she chides. "And if you even _try_ to cop a feel I'll geld you and feed Rufus the offcuts." She looks at the dog, splayed in the throes of ecstasy under Leliana's hand, and shakes her head with resigned amusement. "And as for you – you're a disgrace to generations of selective breeding, you really are."

The mabari sniffs disdainfully at the rebuke, clearly unrepentant. Leliana makes to pull her hand away and the slobbery pressure of Rufus' jaws on her wrist returns, accompanied by a warning growl. "Oh my," she chuckles, "you two aren't going to fight over little me, are you?"

"Not at all," Aryn replies, fixing a stern glare on Rufus. "I'm pulling rank. Rufus?" Her tone snaps with authority.

The mabari cocks his ears.

"Leliana's mine. Let her go."

The dog whines petulantly, but he releases Leliana instantly with one last, defiant lick at her fingers. Leliana pats his chest in commiseration, then looks up expectantly. "So, I'm yours, am I?"

Aryn drops her pack, strides across the space between them and pulls Leliana up from the ground and into her arms. "Last I checked," she grins. "Or was there a letter I missed?"

Leliana laces her fingers in Aryn's short, golden hair, tips her head down and kisses her thoroughly; the warden's arms tighten, pulling her up off her feet slightly. "No, no letter. It's so good to see you, _mon coeur_," Leliana breathes as Aryn sets her down and tugs her robes straight.

"Chantry robes?" Aryn smiles. "That brings back a few memories."

Leliana drops a tiny, coy curtsey. "Sister Leliana, at your service."

"Sister, you can service me any day," Oghren leers as he stumps over to join them, and Leliana laughs as she kneels to hug him.

"Although I fear I may have taken leave of my senses, it's good to see you as well, Oghren," she assures him.

"But I don't get a kiss?"

"No."

"What about me?" the second dwarf asks with a shy smile. Leliana obliges by pressing her lips to the tattoo on the warrior's cheek.

"Nice to see you too, Sigrun, of course."

"Are you _quite_ finished, Leliana?" Cassandra demands waspishly. Rufus immediately growls at the tone, fixing the Seeker with a baleful stare.

Aryn snaps her fingers twice at the dog to quell him, a wry grin playing around her lips as Cassandra's hand tightens on her sword. "Ignore him, he's just trying to be macho. You must be Cassandra," she says cheerfully to the Nevarran warrior as she offers her hand. "Call me Aryn."

"Aryn what?"

"Just Aryn. Or Warden Aryn. Or Commander Cousland. Or anything, really, except…"

"The Hero of Ferelden," Cassandra breathes. Aryn grimaces.

"Mmm. Anything except that. Unless you want to be called Hero of Orlais."

Cassandra winces, then smiles ruefully as she accepts the handshake. "Point taken. My apologies, Aryn. Your presence is unexpected, but by no means unwelcome. I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

Aryn shoots a wry glance at Leliana. "You didn't tell her we were coming?"

"A girl has to have _some_ secrets," Leliana smirks. "Cassandra, may I also introduce the Grey Wardens Oghren and Sigrun. My four-legged friend there is Rufus." She favours the dog with a stern look. "Cassandra is my friend, Rufus. You'll look out for her now, too, yes?"

Rufus ambles over, sticks his nose in Cassandra's hand, snuffles for a moment, then barks. "Thank you," Leliana acknowledges.

Cassandra throws her a pained look. "He's just a dog – he doesn't really understand what you say, does he?"

Rufus growls menacingly. Aryn chuckles.

"Mabari are incredibly intelligent, Cassandra. Best to assume he knows what you're saying." She cocks her head and looks at her warhound. "Make yourself useful. Go see if you can catch some rabbits. Or nugs."

"Hey!" Leliana flicks her lover's ear reproachfully. No nugs, Rufus," she countermands.

The dog whines as he looks between the two women, and Aryn chuckles. "I concede. You heard the lady, boy."

The mabari barks and trots back off down the trail.

"All right," Leliana says, calling the group to order, "now that you're here, we can get to work."

"We'll go set up camp," Sigrun offers. "Unless you want to head straight down once you've talked?"

Aryn exchanges a questioning glance with Leliana. "No," the bard suggests. "We should let them change the guard. That way they won't realise we arrived separately."

Aryn nods. "All right then, camp it is. Have you two set up yet?"

Leliana shakes her head. "Not yet. Our gear is stacked under the tree at the bridge."

"We'll take care of it. C'mon, Oghren." Sigrun grabs Aryn's pack, then catches Oghren by the beard as he draws breath to protest. "Move it, dung-breath. We've got work to do."

"Ow! Ancestor's sodding ballsacks, Sigrun, you didn't have to…" Bickering, the dwarves move away, heading for the bridge.

Cassandra throws Leliana a perplexed look. "The Grey Wardens are the key you spoke of?"

"Indeed." Leliana nods an affirmative. "Wardens are welcome in Orzammar at any time; the guards will open the gates without question."

"But in order to maintain good relations with the Deshyrs, I do still need to have a good reason for asking," Aryn adds, beckoning them to walk a little way with her back along the track, away from curious ears. "Hence the presence of our two prodigals."

Leliana arches an eyebrow at her lover. "I wondered why you'd brought them along. What's your plan?"

"I'm going to ask for a recruitment Proving," Aryn replies. "The warrior caste will fall over themselves to prove that they can best Oghren or Sigrun, or me, in the ring. And it has the added benefit of being a good, honest reason. I _do_ need new recruits, so the timing is opportune. I also want to check how active the darkspawn are; might as well do that while we're here. They're easier to find from Caridin's Cross than from Kal Hirol."

"So you will vouch for us?" Cassandra enquires.

"Not exactly, no." Aryn looks over at Leliana, running her gaze very deliberately down over the bard's curves. "That robe's going to have to go."

"Not without flowers and poetry at the very least, dear heart," Leliana twits her, winking salaciously.

Aryn blushes and clears her throat ostentatiously, deliberately avoiding Cassandra's gaze. "You know what I meant. You can't wander round Orzammar in a Chantry robe. The guard will arrest you for being a cultist."

"Cultist?" Cassandra gapes at her. "We are here as envoys to the King, at his invitation!"

Aryn rolls her eyes. "Dwarven politics is a murky game, Seeker. Bhelen isn't so secure on his throne that he can flout the opinion of the Diamond Quarter. He certainly can't risk angering the Shaperate, and Shaper Czibor forbade the spreading of the Chant within Orzammar's walls some years ago. Bhelen will need your assurances from the Divine that it will be worth his while to stick his neck out on the matter. What he doesn't need is you giving House Harrowmont or House Dace an excuse to challenge his leadership." She nods at Cassandra's armour. "I have some blacking you can borrow. I doubt the crest of the Seekers for Truth would be recognized down there, but better not to take chances. Leliana's known to be my lover, and you're warrior enough to pass as a Warden."

"I do not understand," Cassandra declares. "Orzammar already trades with the Chantry – why should it matter if the Chantry sends envoys to renegotiate?"

Aryn inclines her head to Leliana as she takes a seat on the plinth of one of the towering dwarven statues. "Do you want to answer that?"

"Orzammar trades with both the Imperium and the south," Leliana replies, settling herself unabashedly on her lover's lap. "To do so, it maintains a polite fiction that it favours Tevinter. Thus, the Imperium brokers its deals directly with the Assembly, and the Chantry brokers its agreements through third parties such as Orlais, or through surface concerns like the Dwarven Merchants' Guild. It would be preferable to deal directly with the Assembly, if Tevinter could be appeased."

"The Imperium won't be a big problem," Aryn observes, resting her chin on Leliana's shoulder, her breath tickling the bard's neck. "They need the lyrium too much. Kal Sharok can't supply even a tenth of their demand. Bhelen holds all the cards with the Magisters." The warden huffs a pensive sigh. "The problem is that he wants to strengthen ties to the surface dwarves, name them a caste and legitimise them as a part of dwarven society. He needs assurances from the surfacers' customers that their trade agreements will continue if the Merchants Guild is brought back under the remit of the Assembly."

"Why should that be a problem?" Cassandra asks, her expression intrigued.

"Tradition," Leliana supplies. "Orzammar is deeply conservative. To a respectable dwarf from the castes, those who go to the surface are outcasts and exiles. To invite them back into society, to give them standing on a par with those who have lived beneath the stone their entire lives… well, it will cause discontent."

"And the only way to make sure that it stays as discontent and not an outright revolt is to make sure the Deshyrs will be able to keep lining their pockets from their trade agreements," Aryn completes the thought.

"So we need to tread carefully," Leliana sums up, leaning over and ruffling Aryn's hair affectionately. "I'm impressed. I didn't think you cared for politics."

"I don't," Aryn agrees, "but ignorance can get you killed in Orzammar, and don't forget, _mon coeur_, I'm a teyrn's daughter. Suffering through all those years of history and politics lessons left scars at least as extensive as the Archdemon's."

Leliana shivers at the memory of the woman who holds her lying prostrate and blood-drenched on the flagstones at the top of Fort Drakon. "Don't even joke about that," she chides.

Aryn gives her a reassuring squeeze, then pushes her gently from her lap and stands. "I should go help the others set up camp and get the cook-fire going. You're both welcome to join us for supper – Rufus will bring us a good haul, so we'll eat hearty." She tosses Leliana a wink, offers Cassandra a friendly grin and ambles away up the track.

"So that is the Hero of Ferelden," Cassandra observes. "She is… not what I expected. She is rather young."

"She was only eighteen when the Blight struck," Leliana replies, smiling fondly at the memory of their meeting. Cassandra shifts her weight uncomfortably, and the bard frowns. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's… not my business."

Leliana regards her colleague intently as she recalls that Nevarra isn't as tolerant a place as Orlais or even Ferelden, and that Cassandra, as a member of the royal house, would have had many lessons on proper behaviour and relationships. She chuckles wryly. "It bothers you that she's my lover?"

Cassandra blushes beet red. "It is your business, not mine, but as a sister of the Chantry…"

"Lay sister," Leliana corrects. "I've taken no vows of chastity, just as you have not. It was a condition of my accepting the position of Left Hand, and Justinia agreed." She takes pity on the squirming Seeker; baiting her would be too easy, and ultimately unhelpful. She _does_ need – and want – Cassandra to like her. "Aryn holds my heart, for good or for ill, and there is no one in this world that I cherish more."

Cassandra nods slowly. "I am sorry," she apologises. "I did not mean to offend you with my misconceptions."

"You'll have to work harder than that to offend me, my dear Seeker," Leliana chuckles as gets to her feet and offers a hand to help Cassandra up. "Come on, let's go join the wardens for dinner. Sigrun is a good cook, so Aryn is right to say we'll eat hearty. Then afterward I'll make sure everyone in the enclave knows we're with them."

Cassandra accepts the hand and Leliana hauls her up. "How will you accomplish that?"

"By singing my lover's praises all night long," Leliana grins. _Maybe just a little baiting, after all_.

**To be continued…**


	7. A Paragon of Her Kind, Part 2

**A Paragon of her Kind, Part II**

Aryn Cousland awakes to a familiar, much-missed sensation; the weight of Leliana's body draped licentiously across her. The bard is still sleeping, wrung out from their reunion and lacking the Grey Warden's powers of recuperation. The warrior lies still for a few moments, enjoying the peace and the warmth of Leliana's embrace, the closeness her instincts still process as natural even after a few months apart, but eventually, the reason for her waking becomes pressing. Reluctantly, she shifts from beneath her lover, throws on her smallclothes, shirt, and breeches, and ducks out into the pre-dawn gloom to relieve herself, pausing only to favour Rufus with a scratch on the way by.

The sharp chill of the mountain air has her shivering, and she seriously considers going back to the cosy cocoon of everknit wool and naked Orlesian temptress she has abandoned, but as the first rays of dawn stain the sky with rose and ochre, the scenery catches her breath, and she settles on the log closest to the fire pit to watch the sunrise. She throws some fresh wood on the fire, stirring the carefully banked embers and coaxing new flames to life, then huddles close to their sudden, welcome warmth.

No one else in the camp is awake; the only movement is the patrol of the sentries at the gate. Orzammar's guards are ever watchful, ever mindful of their duty. Aryn sets a kettle to boil as she watches the sun shoulder its way over the surrounding peaks, slowly flooding the valley with golden light, and when the water is hot enough, she fetches her pack and digs out some tea, preparing three leather mugs with the strong, bitter brew. So prepared, she wanders over to the gate bearing her gifts. "_Atrast vala_," she greets the senior of the pair as he approaches her. "It's a cold morning. Can I offer a little warmth?"

The sentry smiles as he recognises her; he's the same man who first permitted them entry to Orzammar during the Blight. "_Atrast vala_, Warden," he replies with a salute. "That's mighty kind of you. I hate the sodding winter out here." He takes two of the mugs and beckons his partner, passing one to her as she closes. "Gift from the warden to ward off the chill."

The dwarf woman nods appreciatively. "Ancestors' blessings, Warden, thank you."

"My pleasure." Aryn looks around as the woman moves away again. "Seems pretty quiet."

"Aye," the sentry replies. "Not many have the appetite to brave the Frostbacks at this time of year. The merchant's pickings will be lean in the next few months." He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow. "Your two human colleagues arrived last week." His expression becomes curious. "What brings so many Wardens this way?"

"Coincidence. Recruitment, a little scouting, and a farewell," Aryn answers grimly, sipping at her mug. "If you saw the others last week, you know what awaits my brother."

"Aye." The dwarf nods. "He had the look. Poor bastard. The girl with him, though, she didn't have the look."

"She's a mage," Aryn supplies. "She volunteered to travel with him." Stephan had initially refused any company, but when it became apparent he was sinking fast and would need help, he'd relented. Bethany had stepped forward before Aryn could even ask.

_"I know how he feels, better than any of you," she'd said quietly. "I'm best placed to help him, and heal him as I can."_

"A grim business," the dwarf rumbles, drawing Aryn back to the moment. "But better to die clean, in the end. And recruitment, you say?"

"Aye. I'm sure Bhelen has some troublemakers he'd like to be rid of."

The guard huffed a laugh. "That's the stone's own truth. The watch's cells are full to bursting, and there's a few heads in the Diamond Quarter that are getting perilous close to coming off."

"Not much support for his reforms from the Deshyrs, then?" Aryn asks casually, alert for any political gossip that might provide an advantage.

"Ah, you know how those contrary old bastards can be," the dwarf gruffed, "happy to take the surfacers' money, as long as it's never made public while they bleat about tradition and paragons and stone-sense. It's all so much nug-shit to you and me, Warden." He gestured to the scenery with his mug. "I wander out too far, and the sky makes me sick, but at least I can see that you surfacers have a beautiful world, and I admire those cloudgazers who go out and make something of it. Takes as much guts as a surfacer like you walking down into the Deep Roads, if you ask me. To leave behind everything you know like that."

"I never really thought of it like that," Aryn admits, "but I see your point." She took a pull from her mug. "Though there are some really, _really_ big spiders in the Roads."

The dwarf chuckles. "Didn't think an archdemon-slaying hero like you was afraid of anything."

"There's a thin line between brave and stupid, friend," Aryn confides, "and most of the time I'm way over the divide into stupid."

The sentry nods equably. "That's how it usually works, Warden." He tips a nod to the camp. "Looks like your friends are starting to stir. You come on up when you're ready and I'll open up the gate for you."

"Thanks," Aryn says gratefully. "See you in a while, then." Nodding a farewell, she crosses the camp to their tents, where she finds Seeker Pentaghast feeding the fire. "Good morning, Seeker."

"Warden Commander," Cassandra replies, her cheeks colouring faintly.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," the Nevarran woman allows, her blush intensifying. Aryn sets the kettle back over the rejuvenated flames to reheat the water, and gestures to the cold pot of leftover stew.

"Hungry?"

Cassandra nods. "We have some flatbread and cheese we could share as well," she offers.

"Save it," Aryn advises. "There's plenty of stew, and it'll only go to waste otherwise. And you never know when you might need dry rations."

"True." Cassandra tilts her head to one side, considering, as she lifts the pot and sets it over the flames. "You've spent a lot of time in the field?"

"Too much," Aryn agrees wryly. "I seem to sleep in tents or under the stars as often as I do in a bed. I'm sure I have some permanent dents from some of the tree roots. Darkspawn are seldom found in civilised places." She huffs a chuckle. "Thankfully."

"I have never seen a darkspawn," Cassandra admits. "I do not know that I should care to."

"An unusually wise perspective. Too many fools think otherwise, that fighting darkspawn is no more dangerous than fighting men."

Cassandra smiles a sceptical smile. "I have met many Wardens in Orlais who say the same."

"And yet you doubt it?"

The Seeker shrugs. "I have heard equally many chevaliers say that the Wardens must say such things, must protect their myth at all costs, and that a darkspawn is no harder to kill than a warrior of any other species." She arches one raven-wing eyebrow. "How then am I to discern the truth? In all honesty, I imagine there is merit in both statements."

"Then might I offer you some insight?" Aryn enquires.

"I should be interested to hear your thoughts on the matter."

"You're right. There's truth in both of those statements. An individual hurlock or genlock is no harder to kill than a human warrior. Less so, in many respects, since they attack mindlessly with little regard for tactics or survival. The danger lies in the taint of their blood, their bodies, their very essence. If you take a wound and their blood infects it, you are condemned. If you are careless with a stroke and open an artery, if one scratches or bites you or spits in your face. If you handle a dead one carelessly. And once you are infected, there is no help save the mercy stroke." Aryn sighs pensively as she pokes at the stew. "A minor wound can be as fatal as a beheading. And that's just fighting the regular breeds. A shriek can move from shadow to shadow, gut a company of men single-handed before it's noticed. Ogres in a rampage can kill dozens. It's not a straightforward comparison."

"So how is it that a Warden may survive?"

"Our Joining ritual grants immunity to the taint." The stock response trips smoothly from Aryn's tongue these days, a well-developed reflex. "A reprieve from the inevitable corruption. It's not permanent—eventually, the debt must be paid in full—but while we are immune, we cannot be turned or sickened by the taint or a Blight."

"The debt must be paid?" Cassandra queries.

"All men die, Seeker," Aryn answers quietly. "The only unknowns are when, and of what." Her thoughts flit to Stephan: thirty-four years since the Joining, and the Calling has taken him hard and fast, as though making up for the longer span of life he has somehow wrangled from the Maker.

"True enough," Cassandra agrees. "I won't pry further. Warden, Templar, Seeker—each order has its own secrets and its own sacrifices." The Nevarran lifts the kettle from the fire and busies herself with the tea preparation for a moment, then glances up at the warden. "Leliana has never really spoken of you, you know."

"Though I sometimes think Leliana keeps secrets for fun, she does prefer people to form their opinion of her without the colour of her association with me," Aryn replies, choosing one of the questions implicit in the comment. She's been expecting this since she first saw the poleaxed look on the Seeker's face yesterday. "You knew she fought with me in the Blight, though?"

"Yes, of course, I have known that for years, but…" Cassandra cuts off, blushing again, "I did not realise your relationship was deeper than comradeship."

Aryn regards the other woman intently for a moment. Her intuition for these situations is not well honed, and likely it will be easier on everyone to simply air things out. "It is. I am her lover, and proud to be so. What's on your mind, Cassandra?"

Cassandra's flush deepens. "I don't wish to offend you."

"You're not going to offend me. Ask what you will." Aryn hunkers down to stir the stew, and accepts the refill of tea the Seeker hands her.

"All my life I have adhered to a code," Cassandra begins, almost hesitantly. "That honesty, no matter how painful, is always the best policy. I do not break my word, I do not lie, I do not flatter or deceive. I judge the character of those around me by the standards I set myself." She huffs a sigh. "I am not naïve, I understand that the world does not work in such a straightforward way, but it has served me well over the years."

"You want to know if you can trust Leliana?" Aryn cuts to the chase, sparing the Nevarran woman the admission. Cassandra nods.

"You have the heart of it. She is a bard, a spinner of deceits and treachery. How is it that you can place such faith in her intentions?"

Aryn chuckles. "I'm in love with her, and blinded to her myriad flaws by her sinful beauty and her honeyed tongue." She holds up a hand as the Seeker scowls and blushes at the same time. "Forgive me. It's not my intent to mock your concerns." Aryn looks down into the stew pot reflectively as she stirs the thick liquid. "Leliana is kind, compassionate, and good-hearted. She is a believer in causes, in right action, and a hopeless romantic, traits that are part and parcel of her deep and unyielding faith. She gives of herself, of her love, without hesitation, even though that generosity has cost her dear on more than one occasion." She looks back up, meets Cassandra's gaze. "Yes, she is a bard. Her weapons are words and shadow, and they can wreak untold harm. But she does not turn her weapons upon her allies, any more than a warrior would, save to impart a lesson or an example. You may rely upon her, as I do. You will not find her lacking. You have my word as a Cousland." Aryn rises to stand upright, sees the doubt lingering in the other woman's gaze, and deploys her final, irrefutable point. "Tell me, have you walked the Gauntlet, Seeker, in the Temple of Sacred Ashes? Have you been found worthy in the Maker's sight of approaching the mortal remains of his beloved Andraste?"

Cassandra nods, her expression lighting with an almost beatific reverence that transforms her severity to beauty. "I have. It was… beyond description."

"So has Leliana. If my word will not serve, will your Maker's?"

Cassandra's blush deepens. "You are right. I had forgotten that you and she made that discovery together, and I will insult neither you nor her any further. I am sorry, Commander."

"No need to apologise, Cassandra," Aryn waves the contrition away. "You don't know her very well, and you've clearly had bad experiences with bards and spies before."

"Her predecessor, Mother Evangeline, was a cold, ruthless woman. She used people, broke them, cast them into perdition for defying her. And she manipulated Beatrix a great deal, especially toward the end. It was… an unholy thing to witness."

Aryn nods slowly. Evangeline was likely manipulating the Divine on Dorothea's orders. It's a suspicion she will not disclose to Leliana—her love's one political blind spot is her loyalty to the new Divine—but Dorothea's campaign to win the Sunburst Throne was as subtle a playing of the Great Game as any Lord or Lady of the Empire could muster. More so than most, if Aryn's opinion counts for anything, and her discussions with Eamon and Isolde on the matter lead her to believe she's not too far from the mark. And tellingly, in the Warden Commander's world view, unlike her Hands, the new Divine has never attempted to pass the Gauntlet. She made the pilgrimage to the temple, publicly proclaimed the wonder, and had the Urn moved from its original resting place by someone of purer heart, set where any pilgrim might look upon it without fear of rejection. Maker forfend the Chantry leave the judging of souls to any authority other than their own narrow-minded dogma, even that authority before which they profess to bow.

Before she can reply to Cassandra's remark, Oghren stumps out of his tent, greeting the morning with an oath for the bright sunshine and a copious belch.

"You smell like a brewery," Aryn chides him mildly as Cassandra wrinkles her nose in disgust.

"Good," Oghren grunts. "I'm not setting foot in that pit of deepcrawlers sober."

"Fine," Aryn surrenders, "but that being the case you're also not going in there armed. Sigrun can keep your axe until we get to the proving grounds. I don't want you casually butchering half the younger sons of the Diamond Quarter because they looked at you funny."

"Spoilsport. Hey, do you think Shale might be around? She could help us knock some heads."

"Maybe." Aryn shrugs. "I haven't heard from her in a while." It's not unusual for the golem to go for a year or so without getting in touch—there's not a lot of writing material in the Roads. She hands Oghren the ladle. "Make yourself useful. Start dishing up breakfast while I go wake the songbird."

Aryn ducks back into her tent, crawling over to the bedroll, noticing the tell-tale curl of Leliana's coral lips. The bard is awake, and clearly has been for a while. "Enjoying the show, _mon amour_?" she enquires, shoving one cold hand beneath the covers and finding a warm, naked flank to tickle.

Leliana squeals with laughter as she flinches away, and Aryn takes the easy option of dropping on top of her, pinning her to bestow a slow, sloppy morning kiss. "Mmm," Leliana sighs, coiling her arms around Aryn's neck. "I love you."

"I love you too. Any particular reason it merits comment?"

"Your gallant defence of my virtues." Sparkles of glee dance in the ocean blue of Leliana's eyes. "And I rather enjoyed the notion of my sinful beauty."

"Not half as much as I do," Aryn chuckles, pressing a kiss to Leliana's forehead. "Come on, up you get. Breakfast is ready."

"But, _cherie_, my bedroll is so warm, and soft, and…"

"And will be full of slobbering mabari if that pretty backside of yours isn't out of it in ten seconds."

"You wouldn't!" Leliana pouts adorably.

"Nine… eight…seven…" Aryn whistles, unmoved, and Rufus gives a joyful yip as he answers the call. She catches him by the collar as he tries to barge past. "Six… ready Rufus? Five…"

Leliana jumps up, her melodramatic pout unabated. "You brute!" she accuses.

"Ferelden oaf, remember?" Aryn chuckles. "Look at it this way. The sooner we get into Orzammar to deal with this little mission of yours, the sooner we'll have a bed, stone walls, and a hot bath." Aryn dismisses her warhound with a snap of her fingers as Leliana begins to dress, slipping into her clothes with a good deal more rolling of her hips and presentation of her curves than is really necessary.

"I expect you to make this up to me," Leliana asserts in a sultry tone.

"Gladly, dear heart," Aryn agrees readily, "but I do have a question for you."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes. Why is it that the Seeker blushes every time she looks at me?"

"Does she?"

"She does," Aryn replies with deliberate patience.

"Well, I _may_ have implied that you're a magnificent lover," Leliana replies clinically.

"Really?" Aryn feels her own cheeks heating. "And why would you disclose that?"

"Because you are, mon amour." Leliana bats her eyelashes coquettishly. "A state of affairs for which, I might add, I'd like to take full credit."

Aryn cocks an amused eyebrow. "Oh, it's all your training, is it? Nothing to be said for natural talent?"

"Your natural talent is slaughtering the minions of evil," Leliana chuckles.

"Does that make yours the corruption of innocent young virgins?" Aryn counters with a grin.

Leliana throws her a coy smirk. "Oh, well played," she applauds as she buckles her belt. "Come along, then, since you are in such a rush to break fast. The intrigues of Orzammar await."

**oOoOo**

"Magnificent!" Cassandra breathes as she sets foot in the Hall of Paragons.

Aryn has to agree. The fathers of Orzammar certainly knew what they were about when they built the chamber that serves as a bridge between their kingdom and the surface, with its high, vaulted ceiling, its carefully channelled falls of lava, and its titanic statues of the paragons keeping their benevolent watch.

Or _mostly_ benevolent. Branka's statue glares accusingly at Aryn as she passes it. Beside her, Oghren mutters a curse, reaching for the brandy flask that Sigrun has confiscated in addition to his axe. "Ancestor's shitty arseholes, I need a drink," he growls, picking up his pace and storming away.

"What's wrong with him?" Cassandra asks curiously.

"See that mean-looking paragon there?" Sigrun jerks her thumb at Branka's statue. "She was his wife."

"Oh." Cassandra looks pained suddenly. "She is dead then, I take it?"

"She is," Aryn confirms, suppressing a shudder at the memory of Branka's mad, malevolent screams as she died. Leliana throws her a knowing look and she blows out a deep breath. "But that's a tale for another time. Come on, let's get into the city proper. Cassandra, if you thought this was stunning, you're in for a rare treat."

Orzammar's Commons hasn't changed much. Aryn finds that fact oddly comforting. Her own life feels as though it is in constant upheaval, and to see that other people are able to live lives of stable peace and quiet at least holds out the hope that one day, Maker willing, there will be time to enjoy such an idyllic existence. Although she wonders if perhaps she wouldn't find it boring, if she hasn't become so inured to peril and politics that a quiet life would drive her mad.

_Probably_, she admits with a wry chuckle.

She leads the gawping Seeker and the rest of her band of misfits across the market to Tapsters, acknowledging nods of greeting from several of the locals she's acquainted with. The inn is already rowdy and chock full of patrons, most of whom are likely still carousing from the night before. Corra calls a cheery welcome and gestures to an alcove at the far end of the commons, where Bethany Hawke is sitting with a mug of tea and a hunk of dark bread, glowering at anyone who tries to encroach. She waves as they approach, a relieved grin lighting her pretty features. "Commander!"

"Well met, Bethany." Aryn takes a seat beside her and gives her a quick hug. "How's Stephan?"

Bethany's grin slips. "Fading fast. I've healed him as many times as I could, but each time it does less and less good. He doesn't have long. We can delay two days perhaps, but no later. I should go and make sure he's comfortable."

"Stay, Bethany," Sigrun bids her as the young mage moves to rise, "I'll watch him for a while. Take a moment for yourself, you look exhausted. C'mon, Rufus, you come with me – don't want the rabble trying to eat you."

Rufus huffs, and cocks his head at Aryn. She nods permission, and he trots off at Sigrun's side.

Bethany settles back gratefully as Cassandra takes the seat next to Leliana. "So, we're inside the city," the Seeker states, nose wrinkled in disgust at Tapster's unique perfume. "What now?"

"First things first. I'll head up to the Assembly and request the Proving," Aryn decides.

"What is a Proving, exactly?"

"It's a tournament. Warriors compete in single or small group combat to first blood to prove themselves worthy of a house, or a cause. Dwarves use them to recruit warriors as house retainers, to settle arguments, to honour warriors and kings—it's an excuse for a party, a busy public event, with lots of people milling around, and lots of opportunities to cross paths with influential people." Aryn grins. "I'll get my recruits, and you'll get your opportunity to meet Bhelen."

Leliana nods. "It's a good cover – people won't think anything of Bhelen speaking to Grey Wardens."

"Yes, yes, we know, you're as brilliant as you are beautiful," Aryn teases. "Why don't you and Cassandra review your approach while I'm at the Assembly? You should be safe from prying ears in here," she flicks a glance at Oghren, who has procured an ale jack half as tall as he is, "especially if you can keep Og close at hand. Beth, you eat your breakfast and relax, OK? I doubt we'll need you to actually throw fire in the Proving, but we might need you to patch us up afterward."

Bethany nods, and Aryn gets to her feet. "I'll be back… eventually. Maker knows how long this will take. Try not to get into bother in the meantime. And don't drink the dwarven ale."

"No, don't," Leliana agrees, winking at Bethany. "I drank a thimbleful once. Woke up in Jader a week later wearing nothing but shoes and a towel."

"Maker's mercy," Cassandra shudders.

**oOoOo**

Aryn tightens the straps of her shield, flexes her hand to check she hasn't overtightened it, and then nods to the Proving Master. "Ready when you are, Master."

The old man grins. "Excellent. It's good to have a combatant of your calibre back in the ring, Warden. I'm looking forward to this."

Leliana steps forward and tucks her handkerchief into Aryn's breastplate. "A token of my favour, brave serah," she declaims with a smirk. "Fight with honour, my champion."

Aryn winks at her. "As my lady commands," she returns, bowing awkwardly before stepping into the sand of the arena.

"This is a glory proving!" The Proving Master's lungs haven't diminished with advancing years. "Fought under the eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar to honour our friends, the Grey Wardens, and in respect for their sacrifice."

Applause ripples around the arena. "Your first bout will be between the Warden Commander, Aryn Cousland, Champion of King Endrin's Memorial Proving, and our own Captain of the Deep Roads Rangers and six time Proving champion, Roshen!"

Roshen steps into the arena with a smile and a wave for the crowd, wielding a diamond maul taller than he is. He bows courteously to Aryn, and she returns the gesture before pulling Starfang in one swift flourish. The audience gasp as the starmetal blade blazes suddenly with silver fire, the runes inscribed along its length igniting. Aryn offers her salute to Bhelen and her opponent, then hands the blade off to Sigrun, accepting one of Mikhail Dryden's lesser creations in its place. Starfang has no place in a mock bout; its purpose is killing, not showmanship.

"First warrior to fall is vanquished!" The Proving Master bellows. "Fight!"

Aryn hefts her shield to high guard and tucks herself in behind it, moving carefully in a wide arc while she assesses her opponent. The dwarf is quick, lighter on his feet than most, and Aryn is glad of her greater reach and longer legs as she cross-steps carefully to keep her shield presented. Patience, she reminds herself as she steps back out of range of a vicious haymaking sweep. Against a two-hander, patience is the key. The size of the weapon leaves the wielder vulnerable, and she's sparred often enough with Oghren and Sten over the years to have learned her lessons well. Within a mere five strikes, she has her opponent's measure. He's cocky and overconfident, and far too reliant on the weight of his maul dealing an irrecoverable hit, too eager to look for the knockout blow. Even as she thinks it, he steps into a huge, blatantly telegraphed swing, and Aryn angles her shield not to block but deflect, guiding the blow away from her body. She taps the flat of her blade against his shoulder guard—fair warning, in her view.

Sadly, her opponent is a slow learner, repeatedly giving her openings that in real combat would have left him bleeding out in seconds. She holds him patiently until enough time has passed that he won't look like a total fool, and then, as he rolls his shoulders to prepare another swing, Aryn lunges in, throwing her shoulder and weight behind her shield and catching him square in the chest and head. Already unbalanced by his weapon, he topples backwards with a clatter, and the warden flicks her blade to his throat. As cheers erupt from the balconies, she withdraws her blade and offers her hand to help the fallen warrior up. "Well fought," she offers, even as she crosses his name from her candidate list.

The dwarf grins wryly. "Ancestor's bones, Warden, no need to dress it up. You were kind to keep me in the bout as long as you did. My thanks, and my best wishes for your triumph."

Aryn returns to her companions, racked with guilt. Even though she tried to cushion it, the ease of the win will mean shame for the dwarf, and she does not enjoy shaming others. Especially not for political advantage. Her companions are oblivious: Oghren's laughing uproariously, Sigrun gives her a wink, and Stephan, from his seat by the weapon rack, gives her a weak thumbs up.

"An epic battle," Leliana jibes with a grin as she removes her helm. "One for the Warden annals, without doubt."

"Oh, give over," Aryn retorts sharply. "I didn't want to embarrass him. Dwarves are touchy about their combat prowess, and I'm not going to start any blood feuds for the sake of Dorothea's divine machinations."

Leliana cocks a surprised eyebrow, her grin slipping. "Of course," she agrees. "I'm sorry. I spoke without thinking. It just looked so easy."

"It was," Aryn agrees, now irked more by her own clumsy reaction. "I'm sorry, Leli, I didn't mean to snap at you."

"He was a competent warrior. He knew what he was doing," Cassandra judges. "You treated him honourably, and with respect, but you outmatched him considerably." Her gaze is appraising as she studies Aryn.

Aryn accepts the judgement with a nod, and settles to watch Sigrun take on the next candidate. Leliana drapes an arm around her shoulders. "Are you all right, _cherie_?"

"Fine," Aryn assures her. "I'm sorry. I just… I don't like using people, and it hit me when I hit him that that was what I was doing."

Leliana nods. "I'm sorry too. You're doing this for me, and I shouldn't have mocked him, but you made it look so easy."

"I don't understand it. I could have dropped him in fifteen seconds. He's a proving champion, it should have been harder. It was last time."

"You're twice the warrior you were last time," Leliana points out. "You're stronger, faster, better trained than you were when you were eighteen. And he'll be the weakest of the bunch." She presses a kiss into Aryn's sweaty hair. "Don't sell yourself short. In more ways than one, you are magnificent."

The crowd roars its approval as Sigrun dumps her opponent on his back, her dagger resting at his throat. Aryn tips her head to rest it against Leliana's, mollified. "Thank you, _mon coeur_."

Eight bouts later, all comers have fallen to the Wardens, and Aryn has marked three of the fighters as potential candidates. As the last single match contender enters the ring, one of House Aeducan's pre-eminent, arrogant high-born champions, the Warden looks up at the royal box. Bhelen nods to her, seemingly a greeting, but she takes it for the signal it likely is.

"Cassandra?"

The Seeker, who has been studying the dwarf in the ring, looks over. "Yes?"

"This fellow looks pretty handy. I'd like to watch him rather than fight him."

Cassandra looks perplexed. "Then can Oghren or Sigrun not take the bout?"

Sigrun hoots with laughter. "Are you serious, Seeker? He'd as soon shag a nug."

"He's nobility," Aryn explains, "of the royal bloodline. He won't lower himself to cross blades with a surface dwarf or a casteless. Would you mind giving him a thrashing?"

Cassandra cocks an eyebrow. "You want _me_ to fight him?"

"Yes." Aryn lowers her voice as she crosses to the Nevarran warrior's side. "People have seen me, Oghren and Sigrun take part, but not you. It'll seem suspicious if you refrain altogether."

"What of Bethany?"

"She could fry him in his armour in three seconds. That's not what the crowd wants." Aryn throws out a hand to encompass the arena. "Entertain them."

"Very well." Cassandra straps her shield more tightly.

"Oh, and Cassandra?"

"Yes?"

"I don't have a problem with this fellow being taken down a peg or two."

Cassandra stares at her for a moment, then barks a laugh. "Understood." Drawing her blade, she marches out into the arena.

"What are you doing?" Leliana enquires.

"Keeping our cover," Aryn shrugs. "C'mon. I can watch this bout with Bhelen, and you, my pretty little songbird, should accompany me."

Leliana smiles. "I think I taught you too much about subterfuge, my love."

Aryn chuckles as she takes Leliana's arm.

They're admitted to Bhelen's box without question, and the dwarven king smirks as he recognises Leliana. "Warden. I'm thinking you're even cannier than you were the last time you were here."

"I'm flattered, your Majesty."

Bhelen waves off the servants, emptying the box. The buzz of the crowd will drown out their speech, and the box is secluded enough to make lip-reading impossible, especially with Aryn leaning on the balcony to watch the bout. Behind her, Leliana offers Bhelen a formal curtsey.

"On behalf of her Holiness, Divine Justinia V, I bring you greetings, your Majesty…"

* * *

**A/N:** _Possibly this should have been a little standalone, as it's going to be three big parts, but hey, never mind. Glad to be back in Thedas for a bit!_


End file.
